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To an Editor Who Said I Repeat Myself and Tell Too Much

The mouth works all its life to spit a vowel—

some long sound with feeling fenced in

by the sharp stops of a few consonants, a howl

and a pen to keep it tame, a calm din

that won’t drown out the life it tries

to say, but won’t deny, either, that hell

is the sound we’re born making, the cry

in the womb, which we tell

and tell—too much, of course—

in the hope of exhausting it. Stated plain,

there is no other subject—rejoice, remorse,

repress—all words stand for pain.

Over and over I say—what else can I do?

All words stand for pain. Fuck you.

from To Keep Love BlurryFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2012
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Craig Morgan Teicher Poems

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