- Tess Galati
The Risks of Poetry

The Risks of Poetry
Arm in a sling, her broken shoulder mends into prosaic prose.
She bore the voice of millions in her words
Freighted, despondent dead who haunted
Tendons, cartilage ground to pulp.
Yet she persisted.
His fingers bent forever won’t unbend to spreadsheet, yet
They hold the tune of hammer, of guitar
Of whistling wind, hard rain down waterfalls.
Obstinate joints rebel against the grid
That he resisted.
And she who wandered mountains seeking herbs
Fell in a heap of ankle snapped to bone
It’s bone she sought, but not so literally.
Abrupt, enraged, objecting to straight roads:
Stop! She insisted.
Ghosts walked his streets, tearing arpeggios
Into his breast. He loved too well, tied to the mast
Too late. The blues of sirens shattered. He succumbed
To oil lamps, haberdashers, shopkeepers.
Thus he assisted.
Reading these words is risk enough for you
Wandering, as you are, into your doubt,
Ennui sprinkled with lust for secret runes.
Too late to stanch the scraps that break your heart.
Now you’re enlisted.
—Tess Galati