the way of a creative. born.

cold air became me around eleven
while my thighs framed a’s, dropping and dipping
and i wrote poems on how he’s heaven;
celebrate swallow replacing sipping.
every breath i released was beckoning.
he came while i slept, while i was dreaming…
days that equal fact checking. reckoning.
head turned respect, as if i’m not beaming.
i spent decades assuming no one saw,
until he stepped front with shy conviction.
minions conversed on their hees and their haws.
i held my heavy head; weighed addictions.
in beauty’s discovery, i retract.
everyone knows that. you never look back.