When the novelist decides to try her hand at poetry
it is more about articulating her sensitive side, less
about any value she might perceive in the form.
She's been waking up earlier and earlier.
It never seems to matter how much she drinks
the night before. The birds and the kids that exist
only for the sunlight shout down the outside streets,
cloy her, drive her from her bed.
She rises to make coffee,
to put on her mother's pearls and stand
before the mirror a while. To write
letters back to her publisher
as long as the books
that she won't send
where she repeats
that perhaps her anxieties
would fill volumes
but her heart is
not even one hundred
pages long.
It is four or five words,
simple as the materials
that compose it,
small enough to be engraved
on a coin and flipped.
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