submission

dear editors, i have swallowed a thesaurus for you but

sorry, i never learned to spell. i never learned to trace

out these foreign sounds in my mouth and marvel at

the tastes they draw from my tongue. i have got only

simplicity to offer, and so i submit it to your altar.

dear editors, funny thing- i'm supposedly a poet (and

the weight that comes with that title) so i thought

i'd say it in words- anxiety's a strange state of matter

to live in. it crawls in the space between my index

finger and the mouse, hovering over the 'submit's of

google forms and 'send's of stiff emails. and get this:

i close the tab and delete the email, waiting for the feeling

to retreat. i ask myself, weakly: 'what is art without

perception?'; myself says back: 'i see no art within

these words.' it wins again; i delete the pdf off my

laptop without a second thought, and the list of altars

i've shown my heart to remains unchanged.

dear editors- inevitably, i've come to the altar again,

with so many others, of course. they bear ink

on their tongues and graceful words underneath

their nails. these artists go forth and present

their lovely offerings; they are brave, something i

wish to be. the fear of something stirs in my eyes.

i stay back; my finger hovers over the submit

button, the send button. i feel the fear twist

down through vertebrae into my stomach.

and so i leave the altar.