The Act of Deleting

I string together

the truth in short

little stanzas.  I

slash my words

across the page

like Pollock threw

paint.

And then I

delete what

I’ve written, one

letter at a time,

while the ink is

still fresh while

the press is still

hot while the

words still mean

something.

Back and back I go.

Grief in reverse.

Until there is nothing

left but a blinking

cursor and the unshared

writing of a woman who

appears to be just fine.