I couldn’t decide where the line between the poems written on the program were so I just divvied them up later.
Here’s one, or hell, maybe two:
“There are two different poems here,” I reflected.
“But I’m not sure which is which and what the other one is all about.”
Approach the ranks with
appropriate rancor.
Afraid no more.
How valuable are the words and acts of almost anyone else
from anywhere that isn’t here.
But my secret speaks:
Rast, at last.
And, oh, how we linger over
the words of others
afraid to speak our own.
We linger with hunger
unable to feed, we bleed,
unwillingly fed.
But I am a writer,
unafraid to hate, unabated,
unfettered by letters,
twisting, winding, untwining,
until we all are dead and all.