by Bella Rodriguez

Write from the Heart

Sounds easy enough.

But

when I approach it,

well-loved thing,

covered in scuffs and stickers alike from travel,

I find opening it reveals a mess of feelings-

each raw, loud, and intense,

bleeding into each other;

a swirling concoction.

Not so easy, then.

Not as easy as daydreaming of your laugh,

or as easy as our conversation’s flow, from topic to topic.

Not as easy as the silence we share when the day is done,

interrupted only by easier comedic quips

at the show we’re watching.

Not nearly as easy as the chemistry of our two elements,

Always ready to trade or gain an electron,

always ready to bond. Not easy to write from the heart at all.

A Hit Dog Hollers

But a suffering one is quiet;

perhaps reclusive

perhaps sociable, even unsuspecting

but altogether quiet. We both pace around

Unsure of what to do with ourselves-

both of us feel our untrustworthy limb

give out on us from time to time,

but go back to walking just the same,

hoping enough time will have passed,

and we have healed,

or

someone takes pity

and takes us to help. I look at you with sad eyes,

and you sadder ones look back;

words aren’t necessary to know

we’d take each other’s pain

(away)

…If we could.

What Makes a Poet?

Is it his pen?

his paper?

his voice?

Is it his rhyme,

his style?

Is it his emotion?

Or the fact that he’s lived a full life,

experienced random events,

all occurrences?

Is it his thoughts first,

or his heart,

that sends the signal to reach for his pen?

Making a poet-

is it any of these particulars?

Or the sum of them all…

I could try to make a poet in a lab-

meanwhile,

one would be sitting in my office,

coloring,

babbling his prose;

waiting for me to finish up so we can go,

and perhaps grab a treat on the way,

which he definitely won’t spill in his car seat.