the editor looked through a pile of poems,
where mine hid, with a smear of mama’s anointing oil,
wrapped in the first prayer I mumbled after my last rejection.
(Is there even a thing as last rejection?
Is rejection not a long endless string,
A prayer bead writers only stop
fingering when Death hosts us)
I have watched many of my poems
return with a reverberating ‘no’
& have had to deal with losing yet another editor’s nod
But I never stop wishing I could go out,
& stand in the same way my poem went,
when it bade me farewell, as it set out
to a journal or magazine.
Don’t you wish you could hold your poem tightly,
plant a kiss on its sweaty dusty verses,
& welcome it home after each rejection?
Don’t you also wish that the return of
your poem was not as sudden
as the beep of a new email,
that you could actually watch it
walk back into your arms
so you can see it’s beauty
one more time?
Don’t you wish rejection
was just a word, you didn’t
have to spell with many
& silent sighs?
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