Before I write a poem
the world must be on fire.

Before the words flow
I must inhale its smoky snakes.

Before the sword is even poised
I must cough up a bloody lung
into my open palms.

Before the altar, kneeling
I listen and wait
until a message bursts forth,
blooding my ear.

Born into a little life,
a sweet story
or broken bones.

The congregation’s eyes narrow
as I scratch out a sermon,
an epiphany.

…

Really?
That’s it?
All of this?

Inspired and the format recycled from Before The Poem by Lisa Jensen