Sometimes I sit at my little desk and just let the poem take the wheel. Not in some mystical way, but in the same way you let a song play you instead of the other way around. I used to think every line had to come from the top of my head, like I was the orchestra conductor of my own words. But last night, I caught myself following along behind a line instead. It showed up out of nowhere, real casual, like a friend dropping by with a snack.
The line was simple. Not even the kind of thing I’d brag about at a reading. But it tugged at my wrist, gentle but insistent, and I let it pull me into the next sentence. I didn’t overthink it, didn’t try to dress it up. Just let it be plain, the way I like my coffee and my mornings. There was a quiet relief in that. I didn’t have to be wise or dazzling or even particularly clever. Just honest. Just present.
I think being Black and queer has made me good at listening for the offbeat things, the things that don’t always announce themselves. There’s a softness in me that I used to hide, but now it’s the part that gets to hold the pen. I’m learning that the most tender lines are the ones that don’t try too hard. They just breathe and wait for me to notice them.
So, I’m letting the poem set the pace. Sometimes it limps, sometimes it sways. Either way, my job is to show up with my weird, loving self and let the words find their shape. I’m grateful for the small surprises, and for the quiet ways the poem reminds me I don’t have to force a thing. Tonight, that’s enough.