Open Mic

I wonder what you think when the old poets get up to read?
Do you think of us as someone you will never become?
Or do you understand that we are the ones we’d never become?
Where do you imagine your love poems go after you finish this part?

Your sweet pierced tongues string together words of home and hope
and it transports me to my time before, but your words fail
to help me recollect how I am supposed to stretch this worn thread
from where I am, through who I was, to who I must become.

I want your virgin lips to speak the words that let my ears remember
the yearning that calls from this stage we have built for you.
Help me taste, in MY mouth, desires that have not yet been quenched
because like poetry, love isn’t somewhere you go, it is how you get there.

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