I have pressed my soul
so hard into parchment,
produced scratches,
squabbled time,
plunged myself into
my own craters.
I have abused my dear ones
ripping into edge,
chiseling at margin,
slicing raw,
quartering
my sweets.
I have plucked purse
from the equation,
rearranged image,
balled up the middle man,
burned pieces of what could have been
my pride.
Only to truckle
between the covers
of the dead and eloquent
and dig out my spot
in the pockets
of the poets perhaps.
All Rights Reserved, Elizabeth Bohlander Wilson
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