Everything is the Prompt
I am teaching some classes online and it’s incredible and wonderful but I think it might have me a little blogged out. A couple of things coming–we’ll be holding a CBAW event in Dallas on October 14 to kick off some new programs (details TBA very very soon), I’m reading in St Paul, Minnesota (details on the events page) on October 18 as part of the launch of What God is Honored Here? an anthology I’m honored to have a really difficult essay in, and on October 19 I’ll be in NJ at the Frontline Arts Benefit. On October 20 I will be very tired.
I had to share this poem with you. I’ve been reading it again and again, and reading it to people and emailing it to people and listening to it. Seriously what is happening in this poem? Nicole Homer is a genius please read everything she ever writes. I mean jeez. Click the link and listen to her read it, I promise you won’t regret it.
What’s the prompt here? Everything. Some of the lines I think would make great entry points include: “do not think of me as…” “Let me say it…” “I am trying to tell the truth: …” “The truth is…”
Wouldbelove, do not think of me as a whetstone
until you hear the whole story:
In it, I’m not the hero, but I’m not the villain either
so let’s say, in the story, I was human
and made of human-things: fear
and hands, underbelly and blade. Let me
say it plain: I loved someone
and I failed at it. Let me say it
another way: I like to call myself wound
but I will answer to knife. Sometimes
I think we have the same name, Notquitelove. I want
to be soft, to say here is my underbelly and I want you
to hold the knife, but I don’t know what I want you to do:
plunge or mercy. I deserve both. I want to hold and be held.
Let me say it again, Possiblelove: I’m not sure
you should. The truth is: If you don’t, I won’t
die of want or lonely, just time. And not now, not even
soon. But that’s how every story ends eventually.
Here is how one might start: Before. The truth?
I’m not a liar but I close my eyes a lot, Couldbelove.
Before, I let a blade slide itself sharp against me. Look
at where I once bloomed red and pulsing. A keloid
history. I have not forgotten the knife or that I loved
it or what it was like before: my unscarred body
visits me in dreams and photographs. Maybelove,
I barely recognize it without the armor of its scars.
I am trying to tell the truth: the dreams are how
I haunt myself. Maybe I’m not telling the whole story:
I loved someone and now I don’t. I can’t promise
to leave you unscarred. The truth: I am a map
of every blade I ever held. This is not a dream.
Look at us now: all grit and density. What, Wouldbelove
do you know of knives? Do you think you are a soft thing?
I don’t. Maybe the truth is: Both. Blade and guard.
My truth is: blade. My hands
on the blade; my hands, the blade; my hands
carving and re-carving every overzealous fibrous
memory. The truth is: I want to hold your hands
because they are like mine. Holding a knife
by the blade and sharpening it. In your dreams, how much invitation
to pierce are you? Perhapslove, the truth is: I am afraid
we are both knives, both stones, both scarred. Or we will be.
The truth is: I have made fire
before: stone against stone. Mightbelove, I have sharpened
this knife before: blade against blade. I have hurt and hungered
before: flesh
against flesh. I won’t make a dull promise.
