This is where you enter the poem, with your eager and expectant teeth. Unsure, yet optimistic passenger possibly startled to have found yourself inside the poem. This is where I introduce you to my father, about whom everything is. The poem will be very loud and bruised here: a sorrow matured, a dissipated anger. At this point you discover that my father is a ghost and the page becomes haunted. (various types of deaths will appear is this poem, beloved, this is only the first) Now, my ex-lover enters the poem. After all, every poem is a kind of love poem. (see how quickly we can jump into a new death?) I mention my ex-lover’s hands and you imagine your own ex-lover’s hands and that’s selfish of you. Our ex-lovers cup our names in their mouths but never spill. They leave but never really leave, like the ghost of a dead father.
This is where my depression enters the poem as a weirdly phrased metaphor or creature or color. Chipped fangs suckling away the sadness until it is all gone until everything is all gone including all the other emotions. There will be a lot of moon and white space and mention of drowning during this part and you might become damp and cold and you may even decide it is appropriate to hum at this point in the poem...which is weird, but we all make choices. Another death could enter the poem now if you think it will, which you are, because I said it. But I would prefer you didn’t bring your things into my poem or try to get ahead of me. Just relax. This is where I inform you that I am Black and now you can never unsee me, and now if you disagree with the poem you are Inherently Anti-Black. Suddenly the poem has become political cause every poem by a Black person is political even a dead father love poem about you. And yes, this poem is about you after all. Every poem is about you. And I bet you agree with me, don’t you? I bet you agree with everything I say, Fool. This is where you exit the poem. Jk, there’s more Ok Now you may go.