April is the Cruelest Month

I breathe in the notion that poetry is essential to my life, to a good life, to the rhythm of things. But I haven’t read poetry in a long, long time. The contradiction, it is unsettling. There was a time when I read poetry every day, when silvery slick words poured thick into soft holes of heart and burst. These days are staccato and dissonant. The heart feels stippled like an orange past its ripe. I read it like Braille on the ATM machine. I don’t understand it, but feel hopeful that if I had to I could.