This is a poem that explores a sort of revelation about identity and growth. I wrote it this past summer, which was the summer I graduated high school. The transitionary period from a mild experience to the fast-paced structure of college served to be a difficult but a continuously growing moment.
how the air
grows thin like silk:
today there is no history
behind crushed lungs:
i have made poetry
out of my body.
without regard to my mouth,
(an indentation: crude. unprocessed.)
today there is no one left
to mourn the skin i have shed —
the hours ripen
and carve fifty sons
out of unwrought concrete,
(a memorial: cemented. callous.)
today there is no poetry
behind white bone
only the dull finish
to the subdued intonation
of our misgivings.
