they forgot the poetry


they forgot the poetry.
the sheer vulnerability of
broken open hearts
spilled over bottles of wine
and held hands.
sacred circles full of
nothing but angels.
there were no demons until now.

they forgot the moments when
that woman, and that woman, and that woman,
shared beautiful words of born
from abuse and healing
and resurrection and fire.
words your ears were lucky enough
to hold and try to understand.

they forgot the golden sunrises
and red fawn sunsets.
the bats flaying overhead
dipping and diving in the
lime blue pool as it
mirrored the moonlight
on the faces of gods.

they forgot the tenderness
of the heads on shoulders
the wet eyes as songs were played
and words screamed out of
fingertips onto blank pages,
tattooing hearts together.

they forgot we all gathered
together from far corners of the
world, pulled close by the hands
of hours and hours of poetry
read over distances between
sisters and mothers and matriarchs.
a spiderweb of hands catching
every breath, every word.

they forgot they can’t write
for me a story I didn’t live.
I have my own pen.
I have my own price.
you don’t get to say I
was cheated when I
feel exulted, open-hearted.
lucky. universally connected.

you don’t get to ruin it.

you don’t get to
write my poems for me.

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