Violent Exits

There are so many words that have left my body,

that don’t graze the inside of my skin anymore. 

I write knowing that the word and the moment 

will never be the same. That words cause destruction

when they leave.

I can feel timid as it inches along 

the back of my teeth and down between my lips. 

Some people say 

that words are never found in the sway of the hips,

but instead in crossed arms, head bowed 

like a dog eared page.  Some people say

words are solitary. But I say 

words are found (and loved) when they spark off of the book

and taste like metal when you say them. 

Poems scrape you and make you fall.

You lose those words only to get back up and say them

and love them even more. 

To love poetry is to love the the violent exit,

to know that even though everything looks quiet

it was never silent in the first place.