I’m not a poet

In honor of National Poetry Month, here’s a poem I wrote in a Hugo House class a little over a year ago. (I told you, I’m not a poet.) This is a forwards-backwards poem – you can pick which you like best.

Her hand moves across the page, abandoning the words as she writes them.

That’s how she deals with it.

The cold stillness of love in her heart, that makes her fingers burn until their bones compress into ashes.

Her practice, to write the agony away.

Night after night.

Hands moving, fingers burning.

Words left behind.

It never works.

It never works.

Words left behind.

Hands moving, fingers burning.

Night after night.

Her practice, to write the agony away.

The cold stillness of love in her heart, that makes her fingers burn until their bones compress into ashes.

That’s how she deals with it.

Her hand moves across the page, abandoning the words as she writes them.

 

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