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