Søren Kierkegaard says, “Poets scream and cry in agony, but when they do it their lips are so formed that it comes out as beautiful music. When we say to the poets, ‘Sing to us,’ we’re saying, ‘May new disasters befall you.'”

I can’t help but ask,
“Where’s the pain from?”
Did it follow me from birth,
was it a little cell, attaching to the womb
in forms like spider webs,
remains of horses, and the spare notes
of battle hymns?
Did I unknowingly yearn
for it as a child,
re-reading from tales
of ghosts and sadness,
until it followed me,
into my adolescence,
impressed by macabre,
screaming about the spiders
that didn’t really scare me at all?
Today, bananas ripen at the
speed tattoo ink leaves
trails down your arms.
Go after bad poetry
on numbered bus lines
and piece together the man
who never holds on tight enough.
He has a story. Did pain
follow him from birth,
imprint cobwebs on his heart
and leave notions of fault
to bloom as he reached
golden years, yearning for
something, anything other than
the smell of another ripe banana?
We hold hands.
We look back over the years
trying to identify
the day bananas went bad
for the both of us.
Was it the vanilla pudding dish
of my youth?
Its memory crashing back to me.
Staring into the sweet layers the first time as an adult I
created with some pride
crunchy creamy dessert
for the one who forgot
grace and gratitude
are part of the human soul?
Maybe, maybe it was that day
that ruined bananas for us all.