poetry enters— brings me flowers and a hundred different words for them: bloom, spring, the rise and fall of your breaths. comes & shows me a way in a different light. says here are your metaphors use them wisely, excessively, abundantly, or not at all. i listen, i write, i turn my hands into blood and paint the skies with my heartache, my falling in love, my wars on land and beneath skin, the sacrifices of a heritage i am only beginning to know again. poetry enters— i kiss her on both cheeks and once on the nose for good luck. i whisper into her i didn’t realise it was you i was looking for all this time. she says follow me and then leads me into the sun, strips me naked and exposes hundred year old scars. i learn to love myself by writing love letters to every body part i tried to shrink.
Anthea Yang, from “The Poet Falls in Love” first published on Words Dance
