Ars Poetica
Circa 2015 To My Poet, I am a cursive body
running laps on your notepad
telling you the story
of how we first met. I am the best type of tickle —
a spark that lights your spirit,
warmth — like the sound of good morning.
I will be bittersweet — the first bite
of a fresh peach, the color green,
stars dripping — Apogee. I’ve heard my words can make you weak.
I speak because your thoughts shriek —
bullet holes decorate the page, your brain
wants more, and we both know