I swallow him: his eyes and song and voice,
and hypnotize myself into a state
of listening, absorbing every choice
he’s made, the prayers he’s uttered, wipe the slate
of self away, his bones become my own
the scoliosis and the heart attack;
no easy transformation, bend and groan,
consider the minutiae, every slack
of muscle, every word to him prescribed.
Now weight it all and shape the living clay —
but carefully! …

There’s a lot about poetry that’s confusing, especially once you pop the hood open and start digging around in the engine of what makes poetry — and language — actually work.

One distinction that’s been really difficult, I’ve noticed, for people to verbalize is the difference between poetry and prose.

Most people have a general idea of what the two mean. Like, you can recognize when something is prose, and when it is poetry. …

after Jennifer Niven

Inhale. A primal gasp. It comes to us
so simply — else, it should, but breathing is
a Herculean task — but breathe we must
to keep our blood electric with the fizz
of possibility. Flutter your eyes,
pull all of Heaven in a perfect line
and let it rescue you from sure demise,
a moment or an hour. It is fine
outside. Bundle yourself against the cold
that presses in, the heartlessness of words
thrown carelessly. …