I’m not sure why
it happens this way—
the tug, the nudge,
the quiet little
well, go on then
that shows up
when I’m trying
to do anything else.
Maybe
you know that feeling too:
the poem clearing its throat
in the next room,
waiting for me
to stop pretending
I don’t hear it.
And honestly,
I’ve tried ignoring it.
I’ve tried saying
not now, or I’m tired,
or let someone else write you today.
But that never works.
It only sits heavier.
So here I am again,
pen in hand,
wondering if this
is discipline or surrender
or just the strange duty
of being the one
the words keep choosing.
I tell myself I could refuse—
that nothing terrible would happen— but even as I say it,
I know it isn’t true.
Something in me off kilter,
slightly off its hinge.
So I write.
Not because I’m wise,
or ready,
or even particularly inspired,
but because the moment arrived
and looked at me as if
I were the only door
it knew how to knock on.
And who am I
to leave it standing outside.
.