Sometimes, not very often
I’m afraid to read my own writing.
I have my reasons for most
though others I don’t.
It’s the one’s I don’t remember
writing, I think
that alarm me more than any.
It’s the one’s that keep
in different forms over the years
that sound my silent alarm.
It’s the breath you forget taking.
It’s the secret you don’t tell.
After playing with enough language
what room is there for air?
It’s not very often, but sometimes
yes sometimes, I’m frankly more aware
of the sirens through my window
reminding me to breathe,
reminding me to listen,
reminding me to fear
not that what I have written
but what I’ve yet to right—
there’s so much life within me still
sometimes, it feels
I’ve just begun this fight.