You wanted a black comb of words to hold in your hand,
each tooth a perfect line in smart formation,
a tidy-up job for your clever enumerations,
but here I stand with a switchblade of a poem,
folding and unfolding it in my right hand.
One flick of the wrist, and it’s back in my pocket.
But you want it safe; lines as light as eyelashes,
a practical poem like a pair of sturdy shoes.
A poem needs to bleed a little from the ears.
You see there are so many words to haul from the quarry
before I can lay them at your feet.
I cannot compare your eyes to the grottos of Capri
or lift a line from Shakespeare unless you trust me
to cut you open. Yes, this is like gross anatomy.
I will label every organ while you peer over my shoulder,
then, before you know it, I’ll start handing you your bones.
–
Arminé Iknadossian’s family sought political asylum in California in the late 1970s to escape the civil war in Beirut. Her debut poetry collection, All That Wasted Fruit (Main Street Rag), is a meditation on the sacred feminine. Arminé lives in Long Beach, California, and teaches for The Poetry Salon.