Poetry met me

under a willow tree

on the cuffs of an Iowa river.

I was scared

but he kissed my wrists

and told me that everything

would be alright.

He removed my clothes

slowly,

a sock,

then a sleeve.

So smooth I didn't know

I was naked

until the March breeze

laughed across my back.

I reached for something

to cover myself

but everything I grabbed

was just more and more

of him.

Poetry met me
under a willow tree
on the cuffs of an Iowa river.
I was scared
but he kissed my wrists
and told me that everything
would be alright.
He removed my clothes
slowly,
a sock,
then a sleeve.
So smooth I didn't know
I was naked
until the March breeze
laughed across my back.
I reached for something
to cover myself
but everything I grabbed
was just more and more
of him.
I had no choice
but to embrace him,
lest I expose my nakedness
any longer.
He was warm,
light, tender, and romantic.
So many kinds of delicious
I thought I should explode.
I spun, ran, ducked and dipped
in and out of reality.
Kissing the bends and joints
of my sudden desire.
Then I opened my eyes
and he was gone.
My mother told me I was foolish
to lie with a lover
who held thousands of hearts.
"Did you think he would stop for you?"
she asked.
My soul began to grow round and plump
over the next nine mouths.
I had decided
to put it up for adoption
when it was born.
I had no job
and no house
after all,
I could never support
such a thing.
It was a rainy morning
when the writing contractions began.
Closer and closer together,
shorter and shorter lines.
I felt pain
but I would not take drugs.
Pleasure,
though I screamed.
Suddenly the tiny thing burst out
caught by the gloved white hands
of the page.
My small bloody poem,
coughing and gasping desperately
for life.
I stared down at it.
Into the large blue eyes
of poetry
and I knew
in every batten
of my being
that this scroll
this flesh
of my flesh
was the answer
to life.