THE CLOSET MYSTIC

there’s so many different parts of you capable of picking up a pen and writing.

don’t let the perfect hand 

of aesthetic sense 

pick up your pen.

she writes beautifully,

but her wrists are cuffed.

don’t let the hand of order,

of patterning,

take your pen:

he is exacting, 

& will entrap you

in his cell bar grid lines.

but the base of your spine 

is illiterate, and your gut 

communicates in grunts:

still—

they’re better suited for the task.

the animal of your being

cannot weave falsehoods.

Dive, Persephone,

into your underworld—

for that is where you 

and where the poem 

hide.

Remember: your depths cannot lie.