By Eloisa Pérez-Lozano
My Turn to Read
My concentration begins to wane
during the poet’s last stanza
not because I’m bored
but because I’m next.
My foot taps just a little faster
as I scan the poem, line by line
lingering over certain words
and making mental notes.
I hear my name hang in the air
followed by encouraging claps.
I rise from my chair and try not to trip
as head to the podium.
I look down at my typed-up thoughts
and realize they’re about to come alive
audible hors d’oeuvres for my audience
who waits to sample my soul.
I breathe in deeply, breathe out slowly,
swallow my nerves and fears
about not being worthy to read
An Ode to Writing
Every page is packed
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