My heart is full of poetry,
you told me once, in some
writers’ workshop. If I cut
my breast, my blood would
pool in the shapes of letters,
the forms of lines. You’d find
my dried-up body and verses
would have formed all around me.
When you did die, you hadn’t
lost a drop of blood. You didn’t
have a cut, and I didn’t find you
dead. I never saw you dead
because your casket door was
locked, and no one even uttered
a rhyme at your wake, your funeral,
or your graveside.
I do, sometimes, put my hand
across my chest and feel a rhythm,
buh-dum buh-dum buh-dum, and I
ignore it. This poem has no rhythm,
no beat. I shed no blood and I bare
no scars, like you.