The rain asks me what my favorite poem is. I stand on the back porch, a landslide of mud in my wake.
“What gets you through a crisis? What stills your ship on rocky waters? What holds you as you fall apart, break, turn to shambles? What is it?”
He licks his lips and says he is starved.
“I do not know,” I tell him, as thunder screams in the distance. Dusk collapses against my bones, sending waves of cold up my arms.
Then the answer arrives like the flicker of sun through a cataract. I realize what poem it is. The poem that gets me through a crisis; stills my boat on rocky waters. The poem that allows me to fall apart. To break. To be shambled.
It is the one I am currently writing.
Spilled Ink 