In the spaces between
the words I didn’t write,
there was a pour of poison.
A wall-full of bricks.
The barbs from a hundred hooks.
I almost forgot how in the writing
some of that poison would
slip into me, how I despise
a wall, how each hook
demands a bit of my blood.
I spent hours not writing it,
used up reams of thoughts.
It was a relief when the wind
blew away all the words
except these: I understand.
Those, it let me read again
before they, too, blew away
and I didn’t chase after them.
The wind may have figuratively blown all the words away, but they were still there to power a response in my innards. You blow me away, Rosemerry, with your imagination. Thank you….I loved it.
oh friend, well, there was a lot of realism in this poem … i really think i did write several reams of un-inked letters. thank heavens they blew away. they wouldn’t have helped–i see that now–just as kicking a hornet’s nest wouldn’t help. timing. timing. patience. time. dang. not easy.