2poemart_questionHow do you write poetry? my mother asks
so innocently, a true and curious question

and I don’t know how to tell her

that a door opens in the heart in a thousand
and three different ways

and something steps out — a platelet, presumably, the heart’s specialty —

and strikes up a conversation
with whatever random thing looks friendly
or sympathetic:

an LED lightbulb against an amber sky

the sound made by the feet
of an unknown creature in the ivy

one leg of the chair I am sitting in

and I tell a pen and it tells a paper and you read it
and wonder.

Okay Mom, you too, bye.