Before We Get Started, Does Anyone Want to Get Out?

You know what makes good poetry? 

I mean poetry that matters. Poetry that shifts world-views. Poetry that invents world-views. 

It’s the honesty. It’s the rawness. 

You gotta take what you feel and tear it apart with your bare hands. Examine each piece separately, then together. 

You gotta stare too long at one thing, until it stops looking like itself, Until it starts looking like a word. 

You’ve got to drink the blood God gives to you. 

And don’t complain about the taste; it’s juvenile. Overdone. 

Now, there’s one thing I think people get wrong these days about poetry. It’s just nothing like love. 

There’s nothing patient about the source material. 

Nothing kind about the meter. 

You can’t fill it with flowers, heart-shaped boxes, 

small plots of land purchased together. 

The only final resting place for a poet is here. 

Sylvia’s dead body is buried in every bind-up intro’d by her shitty ex. Every Norton that bothers to include her. 

You can see the leftover scraps of bone if you look close enough. Look closer, you might see me here. 

drops of red, hair dye mixed with blood, 

pieces of decaying flesh, soft pink insides, 

laid out upon the page for your humble enjoyment. 

I present to you here a special piece of my heart. 

A combination of the ruin I’ve brought upon myself, 

the why, and the similarities that turned him into a hero. If you learn anything today, learn commitment. 

Learn it my way; learn it his. 

Go big; don’t you dare think about going home.

About the Author

Mandy Bach is a junior creative writing major here at Arcadia, and she recently got accepted into the 4 + 2 MFA in Creative Writing program! She loves Sylvia Plath, Sarah Kay, and really any poetry with extensive feminine influence. This poem is from a part of a collection inspired entirely by Steve Rogers quotes.