Process of Birth


I want to wake up and write a poem.
I want my words to eat the words of other poems before me.

I want to write a poem about world domination
and I want to write it while chewing slowly.

I want to roll out of bed inspired, pen in hand,
paper at the ready; I want to see the words
over a book, on a screen, rolling out of my fingertips,
words made of ink, words made of pixel, words made of correction tape.

I want to write a poem that sticks to the roof of your mouth,
that makes other poems seem like water. I want my poem
to be made of peanut butter, extra rich and extra fat.

I want to wake up and write a poem that screams
like tires scream, like babies and cities scream.
I want to read a poem that breaks like glass and create
one that splits like matter.

I want to write a poem that sleeps in barns with beasts; a poem
that barks up all the wrong trees and shreds them with its teeth,
a poem that impregnates men and women alike,
a poem that forces them to bear misshapen children,
a poem that shapes those children into something beautiful.

I want to write a poem about submission, about terror,
the terror of living and loving and dying. I want to write a poem
that was supposed to be a man but choked on his words in the womb.

I want to wake up and write a poem.
I want to exalt the sunlight with a poem dance,
a poem that takes the galaxy in its arms and rocks it to sleep,
a poem that weeps from its hair to its feet.
I want to write a poem, a poem,
a poem, any poem, any poem will do, any poem will do.

Simone Thompkins