Poetry stalks me
in the midst of my afternoon
while I walk barefoot under a blue shell sky.
Birth pains of poetry are
higher up
than the guttural quakes that shoved
new miracles from the mouth of my womb.
Poetry harpoons me
when I lean down to pick
sharp grit from my heel.
It strikes
to the right of my breastbone,
stabs deep
to set the hook then
pulls me
into unbearably thin air.
I press
my hand to the wound
and gasp
while I wait for the light to change
at the corner.
by Alice Keys MD
http://alicekeysmd.wordpress.com/2013/01/04/poetry-stalks-me/
Poetry stalks me
in the midst of my afternoon
while I walk barefoot under a blue shell sky.
Birth pains of poetry are
higher up
than the guttural quakes that shoved
new miracles from the mouth of my womb.
Poetry harpoons me
when I lean down to pick
sharp grit from my heel.
It strikes
to the right of my breastbone,
stabs deep
to set the hook then
pulls me
into unbearably thin air.
I press
my hand to the wound
and gasp
while I wait for the light to change
at the corner.
by Alice Keys MD
http://alicekeysmd.wordpress.com/2013/01/04/poetry-stalks-me/
