By Eloisa Pérez-Lozano

My Turn to Read

Image credit Jan Mehlich

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
and begin.

An Ode to Writing

It grabs you, shakes and stuns you
Then soothes, and lulls, caresses
You’re putty in its ink

Every page is packed