I didn’t write this poem.
Some words were scribbled in ink,
some words were written with a blunt pencil smudged by spit,
and some of the words were underlined in red.
I put on my glasses to revise carefully.
In some places, I make up a few words on a whim
because I can’t read the handwriting.
Sometimes I jot down words
as if they were dictated to me
and I were a clerk at a resume service.
I didn’t write this.
I went on a picnic by myself.
Somebody cries out from the tip of a branch in the forest
when water spills from a rock or a dead bird’s feathers flutter.
I untie the ribbon and open the red book.
I caress you.
The warmth of your cheeks, the softness of your hair.
You are like a cracker drenched in syrup,
a still-soft cake stuck in its pan.
I can’t pull you out.
I can only read the book I’ve made of you.
You’re an old song, a letter sealed with a kiss.
You’ve failed to seal me.
You’re bones that glitter like jewels.
You’re a book that I’ve written, that I footlessly stomp on.
I merely filter you, polish you,
and transcribe you, you who flow away from me.
So I didn’t write this poem.
My words begin with you, silent inside me.
You’re this poem’s end, and its limit.