The Workshop

This poem isn’t finished

dressing, she’s decent but not diva

with her paisley metaphors wandering between the worn-out butterflies and the rain in a lover’s tired eyes as she picks around for form in a jewelry box.

This poem isn’t ready

to figurehead the next Titanic; her heart still sinks at the thought of a letting slip a salt-drenched reader into drowning darkness.

She’s not qualified

to string two ballroom betrothèds along the threads and gems of music in a summer evening’s bustled dress as it swishes toward literary ever after

to open the door and face day like a rat splattered on the porch

This poem isn’t ready

for Nobel, Pushcart or Academy to encase her all in gold that melts like Easter chocolate against the raw cacao of her mixed-up ideas not yet frosted with purpose

This poem needs red pens to sharpen their talons between her words

countless paper copies to cycle into reincarnation

a universe of digital documents to test every step or skip she could take as an alternative on her stroll towards a conclusion

She lacks direction, wavers in word choice, she’s a blot of bat’s blood spewed unapologetically across a rumpled page and to top it off her rhythm is imbalanced

She’s far from ready

And that’s the perfect place for her to be right now –

A seed in the garden that wriggles beneath our toes.



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