by Steven Cuffari
An old poetry teacher of mine once said
Fill every line of verse with pendant dread
The thickness of the text should stick like dry sand
In throats just moist, thirsting, reaching a hand.
What she really said was
I’m a terrible poet, bland
She had a way of talking in a whisper that made me feel light, important
Now I realize she meant my scenes of graveyard dancing were empty, a premature burial
Where the body never showed
But was I the body or the casket?
Was I the soil?
The earthworm?
The void?
She was neither historian
Nor soothsayer
She was a grave digger
Saying an unofficial prayer blessing my fate cursing my phase
I don’t blame her for knowing then what I know now, what she didn’t say, that there are no thanks, no asks, no saves, no grants, no grace
She knew that life happens in the cracks and seams, the bruises, the breaks, the houses, the hovels, in between the delights and despairs
She knew the road was lined with falls, the road would fall away
But she knew most of all
I would never make it
I didn’t know there was a road at all
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