I sometimes wonder if it’s wrong that I actually like the things I write. All the time I used to hear, “You are your own worst critic.” I don’t really believe this. There are plenty of people out there willing to piss all over anything creative anyone does. So I write what I would like to read. Enough authors I have met have said this to me, but the first was Steven Brust. “I write what I would want to read and hope others dig it as well,” he said. I believe this is a fair enough paraphrase.

Anyway, yesterday I wrote about how it had been over a decade since I’d written a poem. Follow the jump if you want to read the first poem I wrote when I took back up my pen. I still like it. Let me know what you think.

She’s

She’s cinnamon on the tongue,
and deep lung air,
the space between heartbeats,
and dreamless seconds. She’s
gravity and bent light, years of inescapable
regret. She’s a bruised tattoo and a muffled note
sounding sad negation, baby skin, and
straight flush vertigo; queen high,
aphasia, and too much wine.
The beginning’s whispered word and
insomnia. She’s finish line sweat
and denied kisses, dew wet roses and ropes
bathed in starlight. She’s candle wax and
burnt offerings, a razor wrist, the atom split,
lightning dance and a tear of joy. She’s a child
tickled too long and quivering lip.
She’s dragon chasing
smoke raised in prayer, a C4 bunny,
three to a match and a bullet;
to whom it may concern, sucking
chest wound heartbreak. She’s
crime in a $4 T-shirt and yesterday’s
shorts. She’s her smile and walk,
cricket comfort and lumbering grace,
electrochemical shock therapy. She’s
the fast right hand captured in unnatural acts.
She’s unclean thoughts, and unrepentance,
salvation offered only in darkness. She’s
the better half of a timeless equation, π
factored past infinity, an easy answer
to an impossible problem. She’s unknown
and unknowable, an unopened gift
gathering dust,
another man’s name on the tag.

Christopher L. Jorgensen ‘04