They say real poems rhyme.
This is not true.
Real poems brine.
After you’ve butchered your doubts,
and carved out some choice, raw bits,
you salt them dilligently,
refrigerate them
(an ice age would help)
and grant it some time.
During that granted time,
the salt seeps in,
forms a coating,
adds a soupcon
of savoriness.
But wait.
What about vegetarians?
Perhaps we’ve spread this metaphor too thin.
We’ll just end this here, before–
what’s that?
We didn’t throw you off?
You know the truth?
Real poems crime.
(Or at least, they can.)
Not all real poems.
But many real poems.
Especially now.
Real poems might have no more purpose than describing
a daffodil
(not that one needs more purpose than that;
who are we to say?)
But even that could frighten somebody.
Certain kinds of language strike flame
in the skull,
and that is the spark of rebellion.
Any wise autocrat knows this.
When poems are criminalized,
who will write poems?
(Everyone, friends.
Everyone.)
