I don't let it show
not on my face
I hold it there just out of sight
in plain view
no one can see
what I don't want to show
they do anyway
this poetry thing
gets under your skin sometimes
an odd rash of rhyme and rhythm
coughing up a residue of words
people like that sometimes
it is a healing by tearing away
a stripping naked thing that never sleeps
it eats away and nourishes at the same time
it is a noisy lover and has no chill
it talks about everything and never blushes
points out the bruises calls them beautiful
a trophy of scars hanging on the walls
it comes too fast sometimes
and rarely wears protection
says it is clean even when it is nasty
I have had so many babies I named poems
swaddled them in books that hang out in libraries
and she is always there lurking
assuring me I am never alone
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