Sunday, May 17, 2015

The Act of Deleting

I string together
the truth in short
little stanzas.  I
slash my words
across the page
like Pollock threw

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

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.


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