Ars Poetica

(FYI, an "Ars Poetica" is a poem about writing poetry. We're a little obsessed with our own process.)

I. 

Every essay I've ever read about Virginia Woolf

is full of one word: transgress.

It seems she's always violating the laws

of time and breaking into that sacred space 

between people. Always

lurking there, uninvited,

in the unspoken.

II.

Once, a poem crept up behind me and struck

me in the ear: What the hell is wrong with you?

It apologized later, of course,

and we went out for coffee as if nothing

was ever between us.

III.

I want to slip into small spaces,

hushed and ready to explore.

I don't really want to steal these

inner parts of you, just remember 

seeing them, and keep that.

IV.

Some days, I want to write 

without asking permission.

Some days, the words

punish me for this.

V.

We come together. We fall apart.

I call out to you, not sure

if the answer will be

a rocky echo or your faint song,

lingering in the air like the light pull

of a bow over cello strings.

The distance between us may be

too vast to transgress with words.

Still, I call. I chant. I sing.