Every Blank Page Deserves a Second Chance

How did I used to write poetry?

I thought I would go on forever. If the well

only bubbled up with dead tropes and

gray-faced images, at least they were

comfortable. Better than nothing at all.


But now I find myself

rushing to lit theory class on a November Thursday.

The smell of dead leaves on the ground, bare trees,

a group of designer-styled freshmen laughing 

too loud. I missed chapel again. Haven’t been 

in weeks. How many days does it take

before what is holy dries up? and then:

Did I finish the reading?  Do I remember 

the reading? I was up so late.


Later, I draw an impossibly long vine on the 

margin of my class notes. The purple ink buds, 

flowers, and produces fruit around the words 

truth, breakdown, presence & absence. Outside there is still

no rain.


If my half-remembered Deconstruction essay told the truth 

then this poem means nothing. Shrivels

as you read it. Derrida turns the page. 

The next is satisfying, formless, blank. Good—let’s

begin again.


AnnaLeah Lacoss

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