Dear Poetry
Poetry,
you hold my fears
you hold my hopes
on your shins
in your groin
around your neck--
all the places I've been told to hit
a stranger, if it ever came to that.
I write on this paper
tracing over letters and words
until there is so much ink
it could never dry.
I could hang this paper on a clothesline,
press my hand against it
tomorrow or in two months--
the ink will always leave its mark
like a henna tattoo on the back of my hand.
I'm spelling out my hopes,
shielding them with my fears,
containing them on the page
but they are getting everywhere.
How could I ever have thought
poetry could hold the excess fear
and hope, hope and fear,
spilling out of me?
No space can contain all of this,
not even these letters and words
inking this page.
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