Carlos

My child asked me today, what a poem was and I told him. Perhaps, in a state of happiness for his interest in such an important art form, I betrayed thousands of years of verse, and killed so many poets. So I went searching and found it all too confusing. Why, I ask, does the poet make his verses so impenetrable, why does he make it so elusive? I felt sad and small, that my child waited, while ignorance wrapped me tight, like a heavy visible cloak. And I did what others do when they don’t know: I told him of how busy I was. My child became a teenager: resilient, smart and unable to allow a parent a safe retreat anywhere. When he met a poet, he called me at once: a poem, Carlos told him, is nothing but a beautiful box, with life inside.