CIRCLES, Izaac Bacik

by Izaac Bacik

You need to know:

Writing this poem was 60% pacing.
My method also included 20% squeezing hand sanitizer into
the crevices between my fingers and keyboard keys,
10% tugging at my clothes and 10% worrying
that everything I write is going to be taken at face value.

These words are not my face.

I read somewhere that poetry has body and soul,
That poetry conveys life and death like
a memory or a photograph or the laughter of a
loved one—but my poetry doesn’t smile.
You cannot take a picture like the ones in my head.
I tread steady circles around coffee tables and
stairwells and the downstairs of my parent’s house
and I would circle the world if I wasn’t afraid that
opening the front door might wake somebody up.

This poem isn’t meant to wake anybody up.
This poem is room temperature water with a
peanut butter sandwich. This poem is checking the
windows with each circle around the main floor.
This poem is setting off firecrackers in the wake of
a fireworks show.
This poem is another circle because I’m always collecting more.
If I walk enough circles I’ll catch up to my house,
and eventually out-pace all the secrets that got swept beneath the oven.

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