something in me has become porous.

my poetry carries me

like a messiah does a message

into a room filled with antiques.

she puts me down in a claw-footed bathtub

and submerges me in memories.

teaches me to cleanse myself

without rubbing my flesh raw.

my poetry is the mother that life

decided I did not deserve.

I drench myself in her milk,

burrowing my head close to her bosom,

trying to absorb her surging courage.

I suckle at my poetry,

and it is more obvious than ever

that we are blood.

she tastes just like my papercuts.

ode to the chunky braided belt thrusting

its brass elbow into my ribcage,

creating what Seventeen magazine calls

dimension.

ode to my dog-eared copy of The Bean Trees,

treasured passages keyed into the driver’s side

of my mind with an orange highlighter.

ode to swimmer’s shoulders, broad

and athletic, hoisting my sister’s spindly

kiddish form over my head while I hum

Kenny Chesney songs under my breath.

ode to Indiana autumns,

the yellow poplars and brisk winds,

scent of kettle corn and cocoa.

ode to the coldness;

it made us.

if you say “I love you” first.

if your cheeks flush with embarrassment,

or if you confess your adoration

to an empty page, and an emptier woman.

a poem knows it is a privilege

to say things you might later have to take back.

a poem doesn’t care about the size of your feet.

about whether you step lightly, or stomp around

in the swaying reeds, your bare heels baptized in mud.

a poem is the first mother you have known

not to poison her own breast milk

or grease the rescue rope.

a poem does not stick her foot in the aisle

while her sister walks down it in a long white dress.

a poem is a father who does not leave,

tiptoeing to your bedroom to lather your rash

with calamine while you watch Tom & Jerry.

teaching you how to play catch, with a real mitt

instead of a bouncy ball spanking itself silly

against the garage door.

a poem licks its lips before it kisses you,

takes a breath before it sticks a hand

beneath your waistband.

a poem says “come as you are”

and means it.