This poem needs a sacrifice

Last night I took a drive. Not because I felt I needed to, but because my mom sent me a $10 coupon for shoes and I wanted to look at the sale shoes. I bought a new CD. “Lungs” by Florence + The Machine. Her music is epic. Not the epic that teenagers say these days, but epic like a gospel, a cathedral, layers upon layers of sounds and voices. She makes me feel like I’m taking a journey somewhere and I was, I was trying.
If I could drive and write I would. Something about the motion and being still. The sun behind me was electric. A tangerine split in two by the sliver of a blue cloud.
I’m lost inside a poem. It keeps turning on its back. “you’re putting the work in. that’s all that matters,” C said. And I know she’s right. “You don’t have to know where it’s going.”
Writing is so much about trust, is it not? We have to trust how it feels inside us, trust when it tells us it needs more, less, everything, nothing. We have to trust when to push harder and when to give it space. It could be the tiniest whisper or a strand – one small word that changes everything.
This poem needs a sacrifice. It needs something I’m not sure I can give it, not sure that I have. I feel like giving up and then I don’t. I feel tired and quiet, but I also feel calm and loved.
I remember a friend asking me once how I knew something was done.
You just do, I said.
The writing gods don’t just suddenly hand you your poem on a platter fully dressed and adorned. It’s in the work. It’s the moment you take your hands away and it walks on its own.
It’s not finished until it can stand on its own

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