As I stumbled over the verse’s crippled feet, I searched
for sanctuary in the chapel of my spirit’s steeple. The chimes
sounded sweetly like a simile’s subtle song. As I listened
in silence to serenity's speech, I longed to hear the whimper
of inspiration’s birth or the rumble of gradual revelation
in my mind. No allusions would cloud my thoughts and tie
the present with the past. No alliteration allowed my madness
relief. Wronged and plagued by the refusal of the coveted,
forbidden fruit, I forced myself to swallow the lack
of metaphor’s medicinal taste. Though I prayed for grace
or guidance in the rearing of my mangled young, rejection
became my refrain. I seeked these things and many more
until I found the cemetery sheltering creativity’s disfigured
children. I had contributed my share to the estimation
of exposed, mutilated offsprings in outbursts of rage
and discontent-a mother only wants the best for her child.
I asked the hunchbacked caretaker, the adoptive father
of my neglected, uneven infants, where my last child lay.
It had been my pride of fourteen lines, but it had failed
to also be my joy. He pointed to the freshest grave, and
there I found the marker scratched with the inscription,
Here lies...The conceived idea had formed its limbs
inside my void, but no title had it breathed. I returned home
with new resolve to strengthen and nurture Petrarchan’s
youngest heir. I erased its scars and stretched its frame
in the most maternal torture. On the ground at my feet
lay crumpled sheets of paper, the siblings of my sonnet.
They too would be buried and dressed in funeral fashions
to disguise their deformities-like all the ones before them.
My missteps had made massacres, but this time my confidence
was completely placed in the treatment of my last. Crutches
have carried it for several years, yet it survives. Soon it shall
dance over the cemetery grounds with its swift and stable feet.
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