on reading a poem

It isn't true what they say
that the setting must matter, neither
the day. To be honest, a poem could find me anywhere
and still, I would remain half of myself, reading
it. This morning, on a trip home, I found a poem
crumpled up next to the seat I occupied.
I had the sense
that the world moved on, had left my body
which drowned headfirst
in the wet bosom of the first lines. I am standing
in the middle of an old living room and I am helping my husband
with his necktie. The words say that I am lonely and
I felt my hands expressing this while they skimmed
over a pattern of wild geese. The writer says that I am waiting for
my husband to leave me. Upon reaching the end, I learned that he will
never return and I know this is true. The person
who has written this never says it, not directly, but
the honesty he left in the
un-telling frightened me. My feet felt
tired all of a sudden, as if they have walked
over every possible body that wants to turn into
something more accurate and sincere.
What I mean to say is, it was so long ago since anyone
pretended that they were in love
with rain. Over a bowl of soup, my father told me
that the true equilibrium of the world is in the center of the heart
of the last person who believes. There is a lie in me that I cannot wait
to whisper in your ear. I want
to say that the last time I went hungry for something
was when I was ten and convinced my classmates
that I had no arms, so that they can teach me
the goodness of letting go. And in their
words was a solace that I could never
match with anything living afterwards.
But the truth is, I have always recognized that self-same confidence
in a good poem: how much it knows you, how expertly its writer can cradle
you in his arms as if you both sprung
from the same kind of love. Try to
imagine what the heart of a poet looks like. Nothing
special, I suppose, save for that strange fullness, that
unmistakable crick that is trying its hardest to define the tilt that leans
slightly toward all our mysterious days.