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I hear a poem

and I weep

By t.r.h. bluePublished 6 months ago 1 min read

I hear a poem

And I weep.

Even when it is

my own voice reading

a poem aloud,

I hear its sound, and

I weep.

I have felt, often,

there must be a poem for

every one of

my many heartstrings.

I have not yet found the limit

to my stanza-by-stanza

unraveling. Perhaps

I am made up of

more than I thought.


I hear a poem,

and I think I’ve found

in my frame where the

organ of my spirit sits.

It’s somewhere there

with those heartstrings,

constantly unweaving,


holding me together.

It is a shout

and it is a sigh

and it is a tearful

sweet lady listening

to a song she’d

loved long ago.

Tell me, how do I

hold all that din

so quietly between the

bones in my chest?


I hear a poem, and I

feel my limbs


to all the things about

being human

that my hands

cannot control:

time, seasons, gravity,

space, mortality;

how my own hourglass

betrays me, teaching me

desire that is infinite but

having not the endurance

to take me much past

eighty-if-I’m-lucky years old;

how death finally

means something to me

now that this body

and everything in it

has been

held by a woman

I love.


About the Creator

t.r.h. blue

torri r.h. blue is a writer, poet, artist, photographer, and advocate. She writes poetry from West Michigan, where she lives with her wife, Alex, and their son Auden.


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