On Being A Poet

I don’t know how to write a poem, not a good one at least

But I can feel one

Trapped in the darkness between my lungs and ribs

It echos like a storm, until my bones rattle and splinter

Until flesh is torn, again and again and again

My body wasn’t made to handle hurricanes

My hands can only hold on for so long until they tire

I can’t write a poem, but I can feel one

In my wrists and fingers

Vibrations from inside my chest cavity that fill up the absence

And ripple out like water

It’s the just the aftermath, wrecked homes that look like splints from up above

But that’s the closet you’ll ever get to the storm