I was born
with the heart
of a poet

so I have always felt
as though I had a head start

but everything I know
of love

came from the lessons in
someone else’s words
someone else’s example

I was taught
everything I ever
learned by lions

and when their voices
eventually go quiet
all I can do is hope
I learned all I could

that maybe my words
will be someone else’s
lessons in the end

and that I will die
with a pen in my hand.
I have a stomach ache and I haven’t been able to stop tearing up all day. And maybe that’s a weird reaction to the death of a woman I’ve never met but she *knows* me, and I know her, and there is a void left behind where she used to sit. She deserves her rest, god knows, but if she’d lived another 20 years she would not have run out of things to teach us.

It feels like cliche because everyone will be writing a poem like this today. But I don’t think that’s bad. I think that’s the best thing ever, and something she would absolutely enjoy. I still remember with perfect clarity, sitting down at my desk in 10th grade English class to a copy of “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.” Something about it almost visibly radiated off the table. I picked it up like it would scar me. And maybe it did.


One thought on “Maya

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