Poet

Ink dipped fingertips

and motorized hands,

I’ve automated the process

of pouring myself

onto a page

and letting others view me

under disconnected metaphor

and vague symbolism.

Intangible am I

slipping through fingers

and floating over airwaves,

always right behind you

unless you turn to look,

Schrödinger’s spector,

a transparent almost life

playing out between

wrinkled paper pages,

torn apart

and stitched back together

into a tapestry

of ever-thinning threads,

no story to be told

but you can listen if you care to.

I did this so that you could see me

neatly dissected,

a specimen of unfolded origami,

letting you into my lungs

and brain

and heart.

If I’ve run out of words

it’s because I’ve given them all to you,

and if I’ve run out of voice

it’s because I’ve lended you all my breath,

listen to it like reverb,

feel the vibrations tattoo themselves

against your mind,

because if you don’t

take in my anthems

my words,

then I’ve unveiled myself

for an audience

who was never there.

Iona Leslie, Grade 10

Creative Writing Major,