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I fell into a deep sleep last night after our talk about my realization that in the truest sense I no longer felt like a poet.

I have emptied my soul of it, used it to light my way, drained it and shaped it into what I needed at the time – but I don’t hear the birds anymore screaming vulgar grays down to the pulp of the resting trees.

It has been replaced with knowing the difference between a common male grackle and a starling.

And my mother no longer cries in her sleep counting the serrated fingers of death.

And my sister no longer fears the wolf, she has become the wolf and I feel something resembling pride. 

My favorite color is no longer the meaty part of my father’s clenched fist and he only drinks now when I am leaving.

Have a shot with me,who knows if I’ll ever see you again. 

Make it two shots, it gets cold where you’re going. 

So what am I now, dad?  The mold has hardened and it looks nothing like you had envisioned, and I have nothing left to say that syncopates and harmonizes with the heartbeat of true poets. 

And then there’s you, my friend always – my heart cannot help but race faster, around you – I put the phone to my chest so you can hear – I worry that what first brought us together to this place – has lost its shimmer for you – the light has dimmed to that of a candle or maybe a camp fire, because I am having this moment, this catharsis, right now, as we speak. 

But you say this is all good. An ego death. You’re growing.  As long as you promise to still write poetry about me. 

I will always be your poet.

I tell you how much I love seeing you smile and I think how it should come with a warning label but I keep that part to myself.

And soon we will be asleep and for the first time in my life I will not be dreaming of my father’s rotting teeth but instead, of you on a Sunday, your face, sun soaked and beautiful looking out over a field of strawberries and  a future bright as your darling eyes.