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Poetry,

I want you

to read me –

to flip to my single page

in this ever-growing

global anthology

and be drawn in initially by the

ink wells of my eyes

that have been dipped into

several times to write

the calligraphy of my smile.

You’ll find my first lines

brimming my underlids and flowing

with tears that glide

at night, dripping

free-versely down my neck,

my arms, my feet – the ink of the words sinking

into the different strophes

of my skin, staining

each filament inside.

Poetry, please, I don’t want you

to read me

with a lens – no postmodernism, no formalism –

but just as what you see:

macroscopic, single-spaced,

streaming consciously and enjambed

at each unpolished thought turn

the sulci of my grey matter takes.

Poetry, then scrutinize me with

a little bit of patience –

find yourself pondering

along the question marks

that these ears of mine shape

and analyze the stanza breaks between my ribs

exposing heart you maybe didn’t see

the first time.

Keep rereading me,

Poetry,

and gather all the details drawn

by the unexpected diction

carved into my mandible,

inaudible and permanent,

and decide for me my true setting.

Fold the corner, my shoulder,

to save my page,

keep me warm,

and

return to me,

Poetry.