Parasite

Grace is a parasitic worm
That burrows out an old book
Slithers out infected wounds
Or fluke lunchtime conversations
Into the soiled safety of rooted synapses—
Pestering, squirming, writhing, waiting
A week, a month, a season, maybe a lifetime,
Until its self-proclaimed Spring arrives
To burst open the seed it found and bound itself to
That you never knew was there.
That’s it! That’s what it has been all along!

This, to me, is what it means to be Poet—
To water indiscriminate the alien urge feeding
On the composting refuse within—
To wrestle through the night for a name,
Pathologically powerless to let go until the blessing
Both sets you free and leaves you limping.
So much humanity consists in naming things
That God himself brought every animal to
Adam to see what he would call them.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s