Poetry by Marissa Glover

       George Bremer CC




It’s hard to say which is worse

I no longer know
how a poem starts--
if the title comes first
or the first line, first word.
Maybe it is the thought.
an idea, maybe it was always
an idea—that took root
or shape and grew like flesh
on bone or petal on stem,
shooting upward through dirt
toward light.

Without knowing how
things start, it’s hard to say
how they will end—except
to say they will end
because everything ends, always.
And somehow, it’s like
putting the car in reverse,
going back, but not seeing 
everything all over again.
No, that is impossible.

The first time, we were looking
forward, ahead, and this time
we’re looking back, if only
to avoid crashing into something
we passed years ago. Still, 
petals fall until it’s only stem, 
flesh sags until it’s only bone. 
Usually, a poem ends like it started: 
with an idea, born and lived, 
but it’s nothing you thought it’d be. 
Or maybe it is.

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Marissa Glover lives and writes in Florida, where she’s busy swatting bugs and dodging storms. Her poetry collections Let Go of the Hands You Hold and Box Office Gospel are published by Mercer University Press. You can follow Marissa on social media at _MarissaGlover_.