The poem I didn’t write has wings of ink,
circling the world for centuries,
its heavy feathers clear as breath.
The poem I didn’t write
would make you beg for more
in a language you don’t know.
The poem I didn’t write is too big
for this page, this room, this town. This poem
would make us all cry.
The poem I didn’t write is roaring,
teeth bared. The poem I didn’t write
has seven thousand arms.
The poem I didn’t write would break up fights,
stop business meetings, divert traffic, end most marriages.
The poem I didn’t write would lead us screaming through the streets.
The syllables are fire. They smolder
under rocks and burn themselves
into the bark of trees.
The poem I didn’t write is written in our bodies.
This poem needs one true word from each of us.
It won’t wait anymore.
