he asks me, “what has poetry taught 

you?

why is it so important?”

 

i ponder the question for a moment and 

think about the women who 

came before me,

the poets who have inspired my

style and made me delve

deeper into my mind — 

from Margaret Atwood to

Sylvia Plath

and Virginia Woolf;

i want to tell him 

“i am A Sad Child,

i am Tulips, 

i am The Waves.”

 

but instead i say,

“i think it is beautiful 

how people can feel so much

and write so little, 

how they can put their heart

on a page and we solve them like

they’re a puzzle.”

 

in my head, my answer rambles on —

i imagine telling him about how

i learned to feel

again and

i have learned to breathe

underwater 

with both hands tied behind my back

because i’m no longer drowning —

i am floating,

alive and with my lungs

full of life and my heart full of words

 

in my head, i tell him that 

this world was once

dark and now it’s —

bright and vast 

as though it is a painting

with colors mixed and bleeding

into each other and a picture

is worth a thousand words but

a piece of art like the one we’re 

living in is worth a thousand 

poems