I WRITE in the hope
That my name will land somewhere in the gooey mud,
Even when the air has run from my lips
And my still dress is soaked by the grieving tears.
I WONDER in whose hands my fervent writing will land,
And if they will keep going from where I had left off,
Turning my catastrophic endings into humorous puns
Perhaps, they’ll let the poetry I trusted be crushed into powder.
It is the stories whose authors do not believe in them,
That I fear
Will pass into purgatory with their inventors.
Too often
Has my friend confessed she is no writer,
But I’ve been enthralled by her quiet lyrics
And I’ve envisioned myself in her grimy blue shoes.
My father tells me tales of a sweaty discotec,
His swift robotic body pushing against a vibration;
And then I have to question,
Aren’t we all writers?
I’VE PRAYED with those whose hands have gone cold,
And though I’m still to face the end of a sentence,
The people who have bid me goodbye
End up becoming my favorite lines.
I ONCE revealed to my roommates
That I was born from a poet,
And on the same day,
Promised myself that I would perish at the hands of one.
I have witnessed it,
When a writer dies
We come together to read his body,
And hope for one last story.
