by Brian Builta
And then the words come, like
signing your name over and over
and over, like what died
not staying dead, like Lily
serving margaritas to cheerleaders
slowly bloating, words like broken glass,
father in a fire, dormant volcano,
virgin that should’ve stayed hidden.
A poem is such a slender space
to place words, chiaroscuro,
Playdough, donut and dance mom.
Words like birds in a cage, the age
of words in a bird, the old adage
of words being worth a thousand ages,
the gauge we use to abuse
the birds in a word cage.
A poem is a notoriously fickle
piece of machinery, often
stupid and smug, chilly little bitch.
Hot then cold. Dry then wet. Young then old.
There’s music in falling water.
After a strict diet of soul, this pencil
really lays down the lead.
Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His work has been published in North of Oxford, Hole in the Head Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Ohio Review, TriQuarterly, and 2River View, among others.
Little Leaf Literary Journal 