These words, too, run shallow.
I want them weighty, hugely swollen
filling the line like a mouthful of steak
too big to chew;
darkened by secret meaning
sharp with rancor
crowded as teeth
no space between to draw a breath
no light save the brilliance of bursting consonants.
A poem must be a ponderous thing
torn from the gut
cloaked in pain and anguish
difficult to comprehend.
Mine are clear as water.
-Carol Brockfield
Cram II, April 30, 2011
Carol Foreman Brockfield 