Sometimes I wonder if I scare you all off with my poems.
I was moved to try to convey how it is, when a poem comes.
When a poem comes, I am grateful for it. I receive it like a friend I haven’t seen in years. A friend who moved away, who I used to be so myself with, who used to know me without my having to explain. A friend who would made me cry and laugh and most of all, forgive myself.
When a poem comes, I am at the ready all at once, quick, get a pen, go with it, don’t let it pass through town without stopping by for a visit.
When a poem comes, I am startled, surprised, having decided that this friend was definitely gone forever, a memory, someone I can’t even track down again on Facebook or Google, disappeared into the crowds of the world.
When a poem comes, I drop it all. Even my kids are on the couch watching Dora.
When a poem comes, I want to eat it whole, a mango dripping juice down my chin and breasts, straight from the laden branch.
When a poem comes, I am shy sometimes, a girl sure I won’t catch that cute guy’s eye. Surely he’ll go for someone taller.
When a poem comes, I am sure it is the last time, the ultimate connection, the final hello and goodbye, the best yet.
When a poem comes, I want to share it with the world, shout it from the rooftops, sing it from the mountains and read it at an open mike and broadcast it live as an offering from my soul.
When a poem comes, I am humbled, jazzed, can’t contain myself, the recipient of some grand phone call, a prize.
And the poem does not exist, never has, without you, without the reader, the listener, the witness to the trees falling all around me in this dense forest.