Not long ago I had an opportunity to have a handful of poems critiqued by a published poet. Afterwards, I couldn’t help but think that my ½ hour with her seemed more like a therapy session than a review of my work.

The Poet

On a balcony overlooking a paradox

she offers and I take a seat

a teacher and a poet in a long black dress

shuffling pieces of me in her hands

Questions she asks

prodding with a smile

searching perhaps for something

words can reconcile

Knowing I’m just another surface dweller

the poet scratches my soul

you’re going to need a shovel, she says

to get where you want to go

No one cares about objects shining brightly in a noonday sun

objects plainly seen by everyone

she asks about my house

why I only go into rooms where the light is on

Her penetrating words finger switches

and once darkened rooms reveal decaying corpses

chests inflating with the breath of recognition

mouths repeating lessons learned

Having trained the emotions through the years

how can I describe what she wants to hear?

the look on my mother’s face

how can I forget?

that haunted expression she wore

when I told her what I knew