To an Editor Who Said I Repeat Myself and Tell Too Much
The mouth works all its life to spit a vowel—
some long sound with feeling fenced in
by the sharp stops of a few right consonants, a howl
and a pen to keep it tame, a calm din
that won’t drown out the life it tries
to say, but won’t deny, either, that hell
is the sound we’re all born making, the cry
learned before the womb, which we tell
and tell and tell—too much, of course—
in the hope of draining (I must state it plain,
for there is no other subject—death, divorce,
depression—all words stand for pain)
that well, as if there were anything else to do.
You don’t enjoy my poems? Me neither. Fuck you.
-Craig Morgan Teicher