"I can only say it in writing" by Judson Easton Packard
I want to write poems where I hide birds in your body,
giving finches the beauty of your fingers or your heart,
but the birds I love most are already plastered to pavement,
and no one wants to be compared to a corpse. I want to
write poems about falling in love with the perfect person,
as if perfection was a thing my words could breathe
into existence, but my throat starts to tighten
just using the word friend, and I am a much better liar
in person. I want to write poems where the world is bright and alive,
and you read them and then appreciate the small beauty in a shell
or a leaf or the curve of your arm, but I don’t even
like reading those, and I can’t make anything beautiful without
breaking it first. I want to write poems that matter, but ink runs and
if people don’t care when someone is murdered in the street then there
is nothing I can write that deserves more than a passing glance as you
click through more pictures and advertisements than you could
ever follow. I want to write poems that have any message
other than I am broken into some shape that is tragic and clever,
but I only know one trick, and it is how to twist a knot in your stomach
with the parts I leave floating just close enough to see a silhouette.