and I will compare it to my mother. This
is how poetry works. You give me
a bone, I tell you
          where it comes from. You hand
          me a rifle, I tell you
why there are so many birds. I don’t know
where to begin. The minnow begins
in a glass jar. A small birth. Something
          manageable. Here is something
that is not manageable: my name. A bag
                    of clothes, all burned.
          I do not care
whether you are sorry. Only
          whether you are ready to speak.

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"There's no mystery why poetry is so elaborately practiced by the young." —Eileen Myles