I used to think I had to show up to the page with a plan, like I was the one in charge. Turns out, the poem doesn’t care about my plans. Sometimes it just tugs my sleeve, soft and stubborn, and I have to let it walk ahead. That’s what happened last night, hunched over my notebook, kitchen light humming. I was aiming for something big and bold, but the line that showed up was so small I almost missed it: “my hands remember the weight of plum skin.” That’s it. Just that.
I sat there, pen in the air, a little confused. I don’t even eat plums that often. But my hands—these same Black, queer hands that have learned to be gentle with fruit and with feelings—felt something in that line. It was physical, almost like the poem had slipped into my palms and was waiting for me to notice. I thought about softness, about how queerness sometimes means holding things gently, even when the world expects you to grip tight or let go completely. I didn’t try to make the line louder or fancier. I just let it be as quiet as it wanted.
There’s a kind of trust in letting a poem lead, even if it’s just by a thread. I never know if the next line will arrive or if it’ll wander off and leave me staring at a blank page. That’s okay, though. Sometimes the poem is just a feeling in the chest, a memory in my skin, a small opening that says: follow me, slow down.
Today the draft is a little messy, a little tender, like me. I’m learning that’s enough. The poem gets to be in charge for a while, and I get to listen, plum-stained and smiling.