Writing from the Last Page Backwards     

By Inkaliisa Voionmaa 

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There won't be Poetry, but there will be

a jumble tumbling down the length of my pen,

blots of coffee, caffeine in my blood and a rush

of ink flowing through my veins and the night.

There will be the excited dreaming

of a bleeding pen and

arrows by which to navigate

the rewrites of this ocean.

There will be the events of this evening and

that look – that look! – but I will not love you

and this text will falter as a mere attempt.

I will drain the swelling of this night.

There will be a time, maybe ten years

from now, when I'll think to myself:

Did I really not know that I was beautiful?

And there will finally be poetry.