I think that all poetry should be written this wayA spark rises up from this tension.
It sets the paper aflame.
You stood over simmering pots like a Goddess floating above supplicants.
You, who had run the house all day
Had tended our children,
laundry, bills, groceries…
I, a crazy man,
Approached you at the end of the day.
“I have to write. Right now.”
A lock of hair fell from your bandana
“You have four minutes.
If you take one moment longer,
then I will kill you.”
You smiled then, and I did, too, at your little joke.
And so I write these words;
not what I planned on writing.
And I wonder how many minutes ha