we pass a clap around like
it’s electric. a clap can
live / & breathe, you know,
because the smack / of two
palms up against another /
two palms is like / being alive. & we

pull / thunderbirds from our
maws, & / let them pop off like
firecrackers / & bottlerockets. we become /
humble, like weeds, like
vessels, / like clay. we learn / what
is quiet. we learn / what is not. /
we learn / that poetry / is

both: / there is a sound of / words
wailing through the
air, & / burrowing deep into a
chest with / a whistle drawn out like
a / sleepy stiff string. / & it feels
good to hurt. / we kneel
to the carpet / clutch our chests

with / conviction & we say / “drying inward
from the edge” / in one voice like we’re
“thumbelina-thin divas” or / “blue-veined
ballerinas” with our / arms stretched out /
to the sides, & / we
steal each other’s lines like we /
owned them all along. / we skin each other’s

knees / & no one feels / any pain. / we are
taught / to turn a poem inside- / out &
wear it / like a rain-slicker. / we are taught to
love the rain; & / some of us kiss the /
golden glints like sprinkles
in the / puddles of the / sidewalk
cracks & / some of us drink it

like we’ve / never had / throats before
& / some of us cry sometimes & /
all of us walk out flooding. / i am
learning / to keep some things / to
myself, to keep notebooks / like a
bird keeps a nest, to break / a heart / without
the heart / even knowing. \ & i am like \

the breath inside \ the pen \ &
the pause when we \ begin, \ but
most of all \ the hope