Every Poem

Every poem
has a double-hung window inside it,
the kind that allows you to let in
a little more air when you feel as if you
can’t breathe. Sometimes, seeing through it
helps you find a new way to frame the world.

Sometimes it makes it easier
to feel as if there’s distance
between you and what the poem says,
as if you’re on the outside looking
instead of the other way around.
Though when it’s dark, you can’t help
but see you’re on reflection.

When a poem makes you uncomfortable,
its window opens wide enough to let you
climb out, but not without things
getting a little awkward. I mean,
you are climbing out the window
instead of using the poem’s back door.

But mostly, the window let’s the light change
so every time you re-enter the poem,
it feels different–familiar, but new;
and you wander around inside the lines
and wonder, did the poem change?
Or did you?

by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer