Lunch Time Poet

I've been reading a lot of poetry this week. Earlier at lunch, I pulled out my book of Adrienne Rich and sat, feet tucked under, eating an orange as I turned the pages one by one. No one disturbed me, despite the fact that I had chosen the lunch room over the seclusion of my office and a closed door. This in itself a surprise as closed doors sometimes go unrespected and I hadn't much hope that people would be any kinder while I was reading my book out in the open.

But I read. Almost the whole hour, until I was overwhelmed by this feeling that I had to write something I had to say down. Never without pen and paper, words quickly sprawled across a colored index card, covering first the front and then squeezing their remainder on the back. And when I was done, I thought to myself this is good.

Thoughts on Index

Aside from a whisper all words seem like shouting.
It doesn't matter that he couldn't have known this.
You think he should have known, should have
known that a raised voice produced in you
a terror too big to name
Caused you to curl up fetal position
on your side, where the tears
leaked down into the old floorboards,
flooding the basement.

How could he have known ... Aside from the fact
that your hands were wrapped
around your ears and your mouth moved
with the screams welling in your throat.