Ars Poetica #3.5

it’s not that I don’t believe in metaphors.
I just think they’re overworked.

I used to write about birds.
how they meant freedom
or the fragile resilience of the soul.

but really.
birds are just birds.

they shit on the sidewalk.
they eat trash.
they die quietly.
or loudly.
or mid-flight.
depending on the budget.

what I’m saying is:
maybe we should stop
trying to make everything
mean something
and just tell each other
how much we want to be held.


On Being Misrecognized at the Grocery Store

someone calls out my old name. I don’t turn.
but the body remembers what it used to do.
reflex like a dog who dreams of return—
tail thumps. not because it wants to.

back home I stare at a bag of dried plums.
I thought they were dates. mistake as metaphor.
maybe all sweetness is like that. comes
from mislabeling. from never being sure.

a friend texts: you alive? I text: mostly.
they heart-react. a type of survival.
nothing dies all at once. mostly. mostly.
we take the long road to each revival.

forgive me for not saying I miss you.
some feelings bruise when named too soon.