poem: Bereft
I used to be a poet.
Something clawed inside me every day,
a quiet and persistent scratching
until I itched, from the inside,
never knowing from which point on my body
the poem would break.
After a while, strange as it may seem,
this possession, this inside-out irritation,
became comfortable -- and I knew it was time to end.
Now, randomly, these words appear.
I don't know whether to break out the cookies and tea
or scream "where have you been?"
I haven't wanted to admit
how bereft
I am.
Something clawed inside me every day,
a quiet and persistent scratching
until I itched, from the inside,
never knowing from which point on my body
the poem would break.
After a while, strange as it may seem,
this possession, this inside-out irritation,
became comfortable -- and I knew it was time to end.
Now, randomly, these words appear.
I don't know whether to break out the cookies and tea
or scream "where have you been?"
I haven't wanted to admit
how bereft
I am.