a poem on writing by Julie Tinard
It won’t leave me alone.
Yet I cannot coax its secrets.
A few, yes.
Enough to go mad.
Squinting at the scope,
unblinking.
It toys with me,
clutching at my throat.
I see the shape of it.
It is mine, in time.
I am held
and holding.
You were meant to be told.
And I, bold.
Only when
we, two, relent.