the excavated self

~from the Collection, Odes to Plath

I admit there is an obscurity
in your work
that lends itself
to my confusion.
But —
don’t bother yourself about it.

I am not expertly aware of how
stone is cut either but
I can still appreciate
the majesty of the cathedral.

So it is,
block by block,
piece by piece,
this building we must do.

The excavated self of blood-raw bone
and glistening sinew,
taken-out, twisted and cut,
examined, the warm blood lingering
fresh on our hands.

Poems are pulled
from a raw-bright-red center,
twisted-cut, re-coiled,
reconstructed,
to form words into lines
into stanzas into poems.

Poems
born at the center of
an excavated self,
becoming our cathedral
as we worship at the center
where creation hides
poems
that we build.

~September 2010