A Thing I Thought

I used to fancy myself a poet
Collecting letters and dressing them up
Setting them together in pretty little arrangements
Their dance would tell a story
Of love, of pain, of beauty, of hurt
I thought that’s what poets did

So imagine an imagination thrown
Mind blown
When what walks in but poetry in motion and
Emotion goes haywire
Spitfire
I’m listing and leaning, careening
Parroting motions to signal interest but
I’m not saying she’s for the birds
Though she is full of color and she soars
Though I swore I saw her feet touch the floor
Did she walk? Did she glide?
Did she manifest by my side?
All I know is she WAS and I wasn’t

I shrunk back, pen slacked in the face of
Walking, living, breathing
Prose
Posed behind a microphone or the lip of a glass
With lips that could ask the world  of me and
How would I refuse?
Art can’t be denied, only ignored and
There was no averting consciousness
From this, this, this hypnotic ambience
This aura of more
More meaning, more feeling
More beauty
A story that grows in the retelling
As she grows in memory
Filling the corners, patching the cracks
Rattling the beast in the cage so long locked away from
Irrational passion

When she moves, the earth tilts to accommodate her
When she speaks, the flowers bloom
When she sings, the oceans swell
Beating, thrumming like a great heart
When she is, poetry is

I, the poet, am left with dropped jaw and blank pages
The words are in her
The world is in her

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