My child asked me today,
what a poem was
and I told him.
Perhaps,
in a state of happiness
for his interest
in such an important art form,
I betrayed thousands of years of verse,
and killed so many poets.
So I went searching
and found it all too confusing.
Why, I ask, does the poet
make his verses so impenetrable,
why does he make it so elusive?
I felt sad and small,
that my child waited,
while ignorance wrapped me tight,
like a heavy visible cloak.
And I did what others do
when they don’t know:
I told him of how busy I was.
My child became a teenager:
resilient, smart and unable
to allow a parent
a safe retreat anywhere.
When he met a poet,
he called me at once:
a poem, Carlos told him,
is nothing but a beautiful box,
with life inside.