If You Can’t Fight It, Write It
Nights awake I wonder
Where we might have been
Had I convinced you
I was dying or
Got you pregnant then
Instead you woke and wandered off,
Slipping past my traps.
I can’t hold on to finish this
My
rhyme
will
now
col
l
a
p
s
e
Into dead poetry-prose, straining to rhyme reason with reconciliation and forcing meaning into metaphor. Floundering with me ter, syllables confounding the common critiquer as he stumbles in de feet – shoeing the shoeless and cutting lines complete. My god, poetry has invaded my prose
So, here it goes . . . again
And there it went.
I missed it.
Bionote
Erin O'Connor lives, writes, and teaches in Northern Colorado.
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