Not Meant To Be Read Out Loud

Like a poem

black lines scratched on white

a melody repeating itself

fish transfigure into birds.

Escher’s drawing

takes flight as did my breath when my mother’s left her.

I’m sure she hated

how the nurses

slicked back her hair.

I tried to comb it

my poems lay unopened.

Escher, how did you keep going? Your critics

must have said, “colorless.” Do you know

this suffering, the impotence of ink?

- As seen in The Third Wednesday