Because I rarely understand men,
(and women can be vague as myth),
I spend inordinate hours thinking, alone,
a poet roaming some old, rickety home,
imagination circling the tower of Rilke and storm,
expecting nothing, and yet, and yet…
there has been the mistaken connection.
Like match to aging, gray slate,
the burn of not having turns more flammable
than any heap of brittle magazines and letters,
because at least, at least those were something once.
They live in wrinkled print, either by some lover’s hand
or machine inked to the top, dripping over just a little bit,
perhaps on the front cover, like a tear, and then called art.
I don’t have that talent, though. I never could paint.
I was never good at talking, either, never much at anything.
So when it came time to amuse or seduce,
I’d always resorted to writing.
But if words are typed and never read,
mumbled quickly, urgent as a new day,
spelled wrong, then edited, only to be ignored,
words, words adored by only the author,
were they ever really alive?
How about me?
Copyright 2017, Katherine Gotthardt