Birth of the Poem

I am looking for a new word,
deep down wrapped in holy linen,
fresh from a christening, or other religious rite,
still smelling of baby oil or sweet grass or liniment.

Inside I become different,
suddenly awake to this strange reunion with verse,
Time sucked so many years out of creative life.
Must force brain to work.

I need my miner’s light,
each time I pick up another book,
carting my baggage after me like a bum,
carving into my mind new tunnels,
digging to new worlds,

Poems lie inside like my babies did,
feeding on placenta, floating in liquid,
My gut, my spleen, my now quiet uterus
is newly alive with ideas instead of fetuses.

It kicks under my heart, in my throat,
beats its new rhythm, ready to
split me open at the mouth, to
whiplash my tongue with its intonation.

(c) 2006 Lori Desrosiers