I clicked open my inbox
and there you sat
telling me, I’m sorry,
but no.
My very first
rejection letter.
I love you
for coming my way,
for telling me
how it must be–
So this
is what
I have to say:
I am a writer.
And no
nothing I’ve ever loved
has been published
in a literary magazine
or sung
in a song
you might know–
yet
I am a writer.
The way a married woman
may rarely shave
her legs again
I, married to the pen,
may never shave
my words away–
trimming to appease
you
or you.
Or yes,
Even You.
I am a writer.
The words that I
say
sink:
drip
drop
plunge
into the wet depth
of tomorrow.
The Day Between 