poets

it is six o’clock
on a tuesday evening
beginning of march 
and i am sitting, freezing
shivering, wincing
beside the open window
but the cold on my skin
makes me feel alive
so i lean into it

i have just read
an entire poetry book
in one sitting
no regrets 
wish it didn’t have to end 
i think my time is best spent
reading the words of other lovers
and wondering where my composure went 

poets notice things
the bend of a finger 
the crease of an eye 
the way your chest feels
when you fight down the urge to cry 
the way light leaves eyes 
when you die 

the book i just read
a reflection on parenthood
i am not a parent yet
but still, i notice
the heave of my chest
when i fight down the tears
at the end of each school year 
and send off my class
into the new 
as i sit, and i think
my mother lays down
on my bed
curls into my shoulder 
tells me how cosy it is
i think
there is not anything i love
more than seeing her like this 

every day, every early
six o’clock morning
every post-work, collapsing
eye-rubbing, exhausting 
six o’clock evening
every tuesday
that feels as though it should be
much further into the week
because how are we still
only two days in
when i’m this exhausted?
every breath is beginning
the beginning of my march
and i march
with all that i have 

poets make me 
cry 

i don’t like
to ask why 

i hope
someday
when light 
leaves my eyes 
i don’t really die 
held in the words
i left behind 

i beg
for someone to read
and decide
their time is well spent
in my mind
even if just 
for a minute
they hold me in it
i will be winning 

but it is not winning
that matters
it is showing up for the race 
i have scribed 
every sputter 
of my heart rate’s pace 
i may not be read
but i have held the pen
so many times

poets
make me
cry

i wipe the tears
from my eyes

in all of the pain
that is already
very much alive
i really do not have time
to be making myself cry. 

18:26pm - 03/03/26