killing my commas softly (Sarah St Vincent Welch)
the dawdling the adding on
the lists, the enjambent
forced, I admit
less in love
with the arguments the rules
the haughtiness of editors
(not poetry editors, mind you)
my prosey report editing colleagues
holding up a falling edifice
by themselves the masses
revolting
the commas in their iron hearts
the comma the most weaponised
of all punctuation
aimed across desks as ninja stars
commas the shape of tears
raining from above
I prefer to massage a sentence
break it up gently with a timely, small
restructure to avoid the stabs
I avoid pain
in poetry my commas are shedding
like autumn falls
like rubbed eyelashes
crescents
scales
a sweep of black kohl wiped off with oil
even the ninja stars yes
the shurikens spinning
lodged in the walls
I leap to the ceiling and cling
uncut
my aspiration is to let
you find your own breath
within my lines my marks
rarely ask for you to hold
for over long
to tease you to a pant
on occasion
then rest in a space
an absence
a rythmic
letting go
