by Diana Cosma
I don’t put it in a hallmark printed box
and I don’t tie a pretty ribbon around it.
A slight lump in my throat
becomes this mess of inkblots and letters
which grow into pages, many pages
and chapters
about this kaleidoscope resting in my chest.
I sweat. The hands are sometimes not as vigilant
as they should be
anymore. So I write in whispers and small steps;
I call it my little new year’s eve surprise,
the night I get to unmask Santa Claus
and underneath the smiling, underneath the sharp red costume,
underneath the hero complex -
there I am:
changed
and a better person for each day
that I witness the sun sneak up behind a cloud,
for each instant I breathe in or let it out.
I am a revised me
and always find a better metaphor
with each friend who holds my hand
and with each flower I water to its blooming season.
Every day, I cuss at the stubborn sheets of paper
when, on grounds of too much warmth
and not enough vulnerability to manifest it,
they’d rather stay blank.
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