and I will compare it to my mother. This
is how poetry works. You give me
a bone, I tell you
where it comes from. You hand
me a rifle, I tell you
why there are so many birds. I don’t know
where to begin. The minnow begins
in a glass jar. A small birth. Something
manageable. Here is something
that is not manageable: my name. A bag
of clothes, all burned.
I do not care
whether you are sorry. Only
whether you are ready to speak.
"There's no mystery why poetry is so elaborately practiced by the young." —Eileen Myles