SingPoWriMoDay24

for jan

I was always the prose writer.
You were always the poet. 

Remember when we saw that little boy with scraped knees?
You weaved metaphors through his wounds, transforming his cuts
into blossoms. Teasing meaning 

out of unmeaning, you crafted with words a tinkling wind-chime
that sang with your distinct voice.

I preferred asking questions, chronicling the whos, whys and hows.
I sought to construct frames over these scratches, to link past 

to present. I grounded my words in the stability of history,
raised a skyscraper upon a foundation of theme and trait,
with the shadow of its spire reaching 

for the concrete. You told me that prose writers lie,
that we build Babels upon made-up tales.
Whereas poets—purposive without purpose, artists 

for art’s sake—only beautify what is; they do not lie.
You would love me forever if I could discard my false stories.
I believed you. I cast away bricks, and picked up thread and needle.
With sand-worn hands I clumsily knitted
nuances into stanzas, epiphanies into voltas

so that you would love me more. But you left me,
knees bleeding on unpaved road, with only flimsy fabric as gauze.

Poets do lie. All metaphors are lies.