It took a nineteen year
old girl to point out

how many poems I write

about a man being in
love with someone else.

She asked me if it

was one man or several.
I told her I didn’t know.

I didn’t tell her about

you and the pock marked
poems against upper thigh.

I didn’t tell her about

the boy I bailed out of jail
to drop off at another’s house.

I didn’t tell her how

a little rain never hurt,
and my heart still beats

like a stamped of horses.

The poems I write

are rarely scribbled in
mourning or heartbreak

but in the experience

of survival and continuance.
There is not always

a strategy to my

arrangement of words.
There is merely the

over pouring of cracked

glass or creased brow.
I tell her she’ll understand

someday how some words are

better unsaid, some questions
should not be asked, and poetry

should be allowed to just be.