![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/d_642250b563292b35f27461a7.png,f_jpg,fl_progressive,q_auto,w_1024/642f120a17b186001dd81e6c.png)
I hear a poem
And I weep.
Even when it is
my own voice reading
a poem aloud,
I hear its sound, and
I weep.
I have felt, often,
there must be a poem for
every one of
my many heartstrings.
I have not yet found the limit
to my stanza-by-stanza
unraveling. Perhaps
I am made up of
more than I thought.
I hear a poem,
and I think I’ve found
in my frame where the
organ of my spirit sits.
It’s somewhere there
with those heartstrings,
constantly unweaving,
faithfully
holding me together.
It is a shout
and it is a sigh
and it is a tearful
sweet lady listening
to a song she’d
loved long ago.
Tell me, how do I
hold all that din
so quietly between the
bones in my chest?
I hear a poem, and I
feel my limbs
surrender
to all the things about
being human
that my hands
cannot control:
time, seasons, gravity,
space, mortality;
how my own hourglass
betrays me, teaching me
desire that is infinite but
having not the endurance
to take me much past
eighty-if-I’m-lucky years old;
how death finally
means something to me
now that this body
and everything in it
has been
held by a woman
I love.
About the Creator
t.r.h. blue
torri r.h. blue is a writer, poet, artist, photographer, and advocate. She writes poetry from West Michigan, where she lives with her wife, Alex, and their son Auden.
www.notesontheway.com
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.