by Dana Kinsey

like that essay you stashed in your binder

just as I announced I’d collect them and

I knew you did it because yours was not

sophisticated or crafty and yet your story,

I know, is the Eiffel Tower in a desert

of thirsty cacti because words in single file

can’t be the army needed to speak your truth

that rests like a barbell on your sunken chest

pressed against your heart compressing

your breath because fathers don’t shoot

mothers in front of six-year-olds and yes,

you may have rough drafts and tense issues

 

but today you’re Edgar Allan and the ink soaked

             raven perched on his door frame circles

                       you in that wooden desk as your body

                                   of work wins the Pulitzer for living.