May 09

The Poet in Hiding

You asked me once,
How to write poetry.
Laughing a shameful laugh you
Belittled yourself and said,
“I’m the least creative in my family.”
You don’t seem to realize that
Poetry swims in your brain,
And feeds you information on the world
In a liquid you call neurotransmitters.
When you string together equations
In algebra or calculus or trigonometry,
You are writing poetry,
But in different tongues.
You tape photos to your wall,
Photos of the girl that held
You once on a waterfront,
And photos of you and I in suits,
Our smiles soaking up the light.
You tape these photos in a way
That tells a story that words,
Could never hope of retelling.
You claim to not know what poetry
Is or how its created.
But ink swims in your eyes,
And words crackle off your fingers
Like lightning.
You tell me you’re not a poet,
But the words tell me otherwise.