You asked me to write a poem

about freedom.

I said it didn't work like that.

Poems don’t arrive on order

nor by theme.

It’s more like a whack on the head (from behind)

Or a slow bruising of the heart (from below)

that seeps and spreads internally

until eventually

it spills out on the page

unformed and inky.

Sometimes if I’m lucky enough to

catch it just in

time, i mop up the

haemorrhaging syllables

suture up the wound

with words

with birds

with anything that will contain the

upwelling - outpouring

of semi-wisdoms and utter nonsense

and carefully lure them on to

the page with a pencil.

I poke, prod and cajole

each letter into place,

arranging rearranging

sometimes pleading sometimes begging -

like helping a toddler take that big step out of a parked car:

You can do it!

over the large puddle

and on to the page at last.

It might squirm,

wriggle, writhe or wrestle

let go of my hand

run down the street

and leave me there

open-mouthed, alone and wondering:

What Now?!

Until, one day

I catch up with it

somewhere down a

long forgotten dusty path..

breathless,

hands on my knees

doubled over…

I plea:

Will you stay? I have tea.

But no,

everyone knows that eventually the poem will

cut loose

run wild

break free -

from me…

Untethered and no longer mine

the poem roams -

following her own calling.

Open to interpretation

she lands in the hands,

sits on the lips and hips

of the Whole World.

Everywhere her Queendom

boundless, Poetic Freedom.

©Liat Lev. September 2023