the poet fears the loss of words to rearrange on paper, and
there are many places in the heart that a drought can happen, but
last night i told my son a story before sleep claimed him from me,
and he laughed,
his mouth a happy moon in a dark night, and
this morning my words carried the sun on their shoulders as they left my mouth to call him back, and
he heard, and smiled in his sleep.
that is how far they can travel when they do not need my
the poet fears the loss of words that will obey her on paper, but
see how many quiet ones slip out when she is not looking, but
they will not be shaped into poems where they do not want to live.
some words are made to fall all over sleep-soft skin.
they are made entirely of love.
— my words are always making poems.
© Liezel Graham 2019.
Photograph by Magda Ehlers.