My Slavic Family Says Great Poetry Rhymes

I am no “poet,” but like the woman who touched

the hem of the Messiah’s garment, I, too, long

for some release of power.

I have only the act of breathing and the swell of

feeling too much in desiderium – a sense of grief for something lost;

an empty teacup that I grip, praying

I might be filled with something.

There is no “poetry,” only grappling with

the joy of being honest,

or the weight of the unsayable,

to begin to stitch

together some broken meter to living.