The Poet Blooms

Monday, November 28, 2016

When I touched the page
it bloomed into a poem,
and then into many
poems it blossomed:

poems about love
and poems about loss,
poems about the body
and about time and wonder.

When I stopped touching it,
it turned back into a page
with no poems on it—
like a bonnet with no bees

in it, or a shawl with no fleas
throughout it, or a dog who’d
barked all its barks and then
gotten eaten by sharks.

I walked back into the kitchen
to find myself a snack. All
there were were Ding Dongs,
so I ate one of them.

• • •

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