Forget everything you thought you knew
about me. Don’t even think about the fire
blazing in your palms. I can’t be held.
I’m not safe. I’m not a tree soaking in
April’s fluid rays. I am not a fawn rustling
forest grass. I am nothing so beautiful
and gentle. I am the dervish that lives
inside a hurricane, the jinn within the
tornado. I am a thousand other things.
I sit at the divine banquet table, and
feast with the eight immortals.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen