To Invite You In

a poem

            leaves behind

a residue,

a sharp aftertaste of whiskey,

a burning sensation

            of rubbing alcohol on a wound,

a drain full of

            crumbling leaves and wet clay.

you never can wash

            it away.

not completely.

a poem

            isn’t lovely.

it bites.

            it takes.

it breaks.

            it kicks.

it claws.

            it waits.

it usually wins, too.

            you watch: the words don’t leave

your head once

            you’ve let them in.

they print themselves

            on the insides of your eyelids.

no use running, really.

well. I never was a

romantic, you see.

a little poem I know

            cured me of that.

several, in fact.

            on and on about

the perfection of roses,

            the cloying sweetness

of a kiss.

            the ice blue of the sky,

the warmth of a smile.

            a time of silence when I can breathe

peace into my very marrow.

all very idealistic.

            touching, even.

maybe true.

but what I’m getting at

is not categorical,

            not quixotic, but obsessive.

the words.

            their extremes.

their polarities.

            the taste of crisp

syllabics,

            definitions,

cartographies of

            identity

spanning coordinates

            of constructed tension.

it’s enough to make me

            shiver.

the intonations of a poem

            slither

down my spine and I

            shudder

at the violent affinity

            I share

with words from another’s

            mouth,

another’s hands,

            lips, and eyes.

a poem

            bleeds

and I

            bleed with it.

one day,

            it cuts into me.

the next

            it restores me.

so. romantic? me?

            no. realistic.

a poem

            is only a niche

            I carve

            in my chest

            to invite

you in.