The Poet as an Open Book

after Emily Perkovich

Between these pages you will find the witnesses

to the ink staining the soft side of our palms.

Our truth gleaming in mottled gold,

rivulets of alloy for every heart we have broken,

most often our own. 

We are bruised – too honest for your own good.

Hiding in plain sight; taking experience

and sewing it deep into our skin

until our words and pages are embroidered masterpieces

— a library of tapestries perfumed with the forest,

the sea, and the mountains,

damp with the excitement between our hands 

— our sternums throbbing midnight blue.

Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2021

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