Once I tried to write a poem about loving
the way men love, with action
and not with words, like the time
I came home from school and found a vase
of roses dancing on my nightstand
and convinced myself every yellow petal
could cancel out the prick of dark blue
silence. But a poem will not sing
for half-truths and consolations.

Today, in the heartbeats between
steel clinking against steel, the handyman
said to me, without preamble, “I just found
out I’ve got a sister. Yeah. Three years
older than me. I had no idea.”

He looked me in the eye
for that last part, hands lifted
in a shrug, or perhaps an offer
or request, like he wanted to hand me
a ball of live wire,

not so I would untangle it for him,
but just that I might hold it
for a while, even knowing it could
shock and burn. And what

is poetry if not this? Being given
something true, and holding it,
hoping it might let you
hear it sing.