One Final Poem Again

By tradition, I try to write a poem every day during April, and by tradition, I always fail but nevertheless end up with a stack of pretty good poems. Last year, though, my final poem for the month accompanied a stinging cloud of rejections; this April is different. Tonight, a ten-minute play I wrote will receive a staged reading at Firecreek Coffee in downtown Flagstaff;  two days later, a short story I wrote will be published in Garbanzo Literary Journal. At the beginning of this month, I attempted a poetry slam, though my poetry simply cannot be slammed. So to conclude National Poetry Month, by tradition, here is one final poem.

Tray of Flowers

In Which the Love Poem Deconstructs Itself

This is only a love poem
no different from the ones that grow every Spring
along the spindly fingers of trees pointing in all directions.

This is only a love poem
that wishes to drop the word “only” from its rank.

This is a love poem longing to separate itself
from all the other love poems,
green with confident cliches.
This is an autumn love poem, blushing red
at the realization that it has slipped
from the branch in deliverance.

This is a love poem
that wants to be more than everything
love poems are expected to be,
wanting to be a knotty hurricane of flowers
pulled from the oven when its recipient
expected only a mediocre cake.

This is a love poem that wants to evolve
and move the genre entirely
from its obsession with nature imagery
and comparison of love to concrete things,
usually in long, organized lists,
moving swiftly from leaves in Spring
to leaves in Autumn to flowers in the oven;
it wants to subvert itself, come out of its cocoon,
but keeps falling into the trap of its own patterns.

This love poem wants to be a nightlight
that keeps its recipient warm at night,
or cold if its recipient so desires,
but this love poem is going places,
it’s creating a makeshift bed of compassion,
but is still dissatisfied with its direction.

This love poem wants to be a nightlight
but one that only glows laughter,
because this love poem is on the cusp of an epiphany,
realizing that no matter how deeply a love poem plunges
into a spiraling pantheon of epiphanies,
no matter how many times it reinvents itself,
this love poem will only be able to convey
its own simplicity, its deep green reduction
of twelve quasars of emotion to a single four-letter word;
its stanzas, like bricks atop one another,
will eventually fall into a pile,
making love poems a fleeting matchstick,
but the love inside this love poem,
the poem slowly begins to realize,

will st ill b e there

af ter

lan               gua                  ge

in     evi         tab       l      y

f           a               i                  l                       s

-jk

One thought on “One Final Poem Again

  1. Pingback: One More Final Poem | Pens and Pencils

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