little about poetry when i took
her first class.
i knew
emotion, i knew feelings,
youthful rhymes
with flowery
words.
and then she
came along
and put a knife into
the whole stack of poems
i'd bet my life on.
she drew out the blood
of living, of dying.
of love
and hate.
she twisted the knife in
to kill
all of my mistakes.
read slowly, she'd say.
listen to every word you say,
savor it,
read everything
out loud
as if to an audience,
then start over
after you throw it all away.
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