On the branches of her confused optimism
A piece has turned to tender literature.
The woman’s end has, in fact, created her beloved.
Her experience finds this absurd; that’s the reality.
She despises the line between beginning and end;
It takes all hope away
Once, she’d loved, because she’d known since birth.
When she fell into the clenched fist, she was, in fact, hopeful.
She wrote, in order to keep from feeling guilty.
Writing down memory is a deeper process.
Pierced by silences, suffering went unspoken, understood.
She connected to what she was learning.
Just a voice on the page, certain of being heard.
The notes mark her work, inventing that song.
She could no longer be a swallowed spirit.
In memory, she decided to live for love