As the evening shadows slope along the far wall, I am sipping whiskey on a smooth leather couch by the large window which opens to a lush garden of thick greens and blushing pink fragrant blooms. The heavy storms which slammed through earlier have left everything ravished and tossed around. Gigantic globes of crystal clear raindrops still cling to each leaf and petal, tiny oceanic portals into an ancient time and place more magical than this one.
I love this time of day the most. The transition of light from the heat of the auburn sun into the cool hood of purple twilight. I scroll my phone, as one does, and amidst all the lies and distraction, happen to come upon some poetry which takes my breath away for the depth and precision of its sensuousness, its sumptuousness. The uncanny insights the author seems to have into the folds of the human psyche, and how that is manipulated in such a way as to hold a mirror up to the reader, a mirror like a portal, a membrane. An opening into a deep dark hole one falls all the way into, in spite of herself.
And in this moment, hidden away from all the world, lost in the beautiful lust of such reverie, feeding on this worded, naked, poisonous sustenance, I cannot help but wonder why on earth anyone ever speaks about poetry so poetically.
Poetry kills. It ruins. It does not relent. It does not forgive.