this story could be about divorce,
but you are not a ghost, not yet.
you asked me what poets were–
it is the middle of the night
and there is a cheap hotel room
i cannot fathom myself into.
i smoked my first cigarette
the first time i saw you naked,
your lonely colors carved into arcs;
now, my hands are brittle
and your back is an expanse
i will write about
a year from here
where it wears thin
because poetry is for the birds
and i am not made to lead revolutions.
twenty one and imprinted,
i have learned to grovel.
—copyright Elizabeth Mathis, September 2014—
—This is a first line poem originally posted on my deviantart: http://betwixtthepages.deviantart.com/art/blackbird-poets-481211390 —