12/30: a day late, a poem for yesterday

A poet uses metaphors when she’s afraid

of direct honesty.  A poet never fears honesty,

do not misunderstand me, it’s just sometimes

she’s been forced into such small spaces

while the rest of the world sprawls out around her

that she’d rather tiptoe in curves than stride

straightforward to the truth.  She calls you a tattoo,

something exciting when fresh and new but also

something that fades, something that needs

touching up.  She calls you a puppy, adorable

and great for cuddles when young, but something

that grows into a sleepy old dog, carefully avoiding

any metaphors about training.  She talks about

daybreaks and opening chords to songs, about unwrapping

gifts on birthdays, talks about birth, then moves

into death, into disappointment, fade outs and sunsets

and even now I am using the third person to talk

about myself because I cannot say directly

without first writing a whole poem in metaphor

how terrified I am not only that this love could die

but that perhaps its song has already reached

the final bars, and I’m still standing here singing

but the crowd has all gone home.