Dear poem—reluctant bitter poem
of the pock-marked face: you,
the one who will utter the undeclared IT—
I am waiting.
I pledge welcome
no matter your message
—though you shame me,
though you fail me, even though
you hide yourself for decades—deep
within the dun canopic vessel of regret.
I am waiting to reveal myself—brave,
savage poem.
- – - – - – - – - -
Squaw Valley Review, 2003
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