One cannot plan the process
Of a poem
No more than a pregnancy
A literal gestation period
Riding the swells
Of good words
In bad worlds
And bad words
In good worlds
In the background therein
Beats a rhythmic cadence
Both furious and eloquent
Muffled by layers
Of muscle and fat
It bifurcates off the writer
A living conduit
Rendered silent
Validated only when she
Can name the body
With a title.
Ciera S. Louise c. Dec. 03, 2005