Wednesday, November 4, 2015


Dear Dan,

A poem to begin today's letter part 1.

Do you know why I write poetry?

I'm not sure I know either
I'm not sure there's one reason for it

I like words
I like to let them run through my mouth
my eyes, my page
like my hair, shampoo-filled, compliant running through my fingers
like wet sand stuck in the crevices between each of my toes
like our cold noses rubbing against one another's for warmth

I like to hide behind words
like those mornings I peek from behind the blanket not ready to emerge in my full early morning vulnerability
like my mummy's back, wise and tall to shelter me from things I can't see
like wearing black so my tummy looks a different size than it is

I like to dance with words
like a Suparna-Dan jam session
like a set of lungs trying to catch their breath after an hour of zumba
like an imagined choreographed sequence only I can see

I like to fight with words
like the tears that fall from not biting my tongue soon enough
like the inner voice that tells me my hands are not clean
like the balloons of madness set adrift by rivals long gone

I like to plunge deep into words
like that first dip into the Mediterranean Sea
like falling steeply and gorgeously in love
like dumping a frigid mug of water on your head and hearing your breath die midway

I like to etch words
like the tree on my back that shall go back into the ground with my body
like the cuts on her forearm that don't let her forget her power for a moment
like the words on a blog nobody may ever read

I like words
I like to write them for you
I like to write them for me

Wordily, yours,

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