Day 26

 Ars poetica


When I was six,

I wrote a poem about a Tiger

And recited it to my Grandmother

And Grandfather and Mother and Father

And baby brother.

I was usually quiet 

But the words made me proud

Summoning the Tiger 


Now I write 

Lately, every day 

Trying for this conjuring 


Through strategies to describe the Tiger,

The fire of its pelt 

Its ribs the bars of a cage for a heart,

It utterly itself,and yet the words

I choose still hunt me down.

I feel the poem's breath

On the back of my neck.

I dream that when I speak it

there'll be a quiet roar.

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