The poem sits inside you
like a hunter
waiting
for a weak moment
of indecision
or the lull
of your commute
and that’s when it pounces
clawing its words
into the hem of your lips
for birth is no place for grace
and your friends think it’s serene
this poetry
but they don’t see
its teeth
that if you don’t give it paper
to feast on
your friends will call for you
and find only
a stack
of bones.