They say to write poetry
You must pour your experiences into
the words
Baptize the page with memories.
But how do I convey
the dirt under my fingernails
from the day they buried him
when I tried so desperately to take him back from the greedy Earth?
Or the bags under my mother’s eyes,
Straining like a dog on its lead, and weighed heavy by the pressure to keep us innocent?
Or the way the black satin ran against my trembling hands
as I was expected to say good-bye?
Or the coffee stain that was made as I first heard the word “suicide’’ drip from my grandmother’s lips?
How do I let these things sift from my mind
And fall onto the ready and still paper?
Will seeing them written down free them
from my mind?
I want exorcism on these memories that
follow me home
Like ghosts of my pain.
I’ll give to the words in hopes they’ll
give back to me
what it means to be free.