Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest having to do with prose. I realized January 19ththat I will turn twenty-four in three months, and since I started writing some poems before it’s too late: forty-six poems at twenty-three. I’ll post each Friday until the last week of March, then I’ll post one a day until my birthday on April 30th. Here’s number 20:
They could not touch her, scaled as she was
She’s invincible, ironclad, armored , reinforced
Scaling wales, scaly skin, tatar scales on teeth to scale
They could not touch her
Over time left stranded, abandoned
No hug, touch, tickle, brush by those who
Held her close, once, before the scales sprouted; the man who
Took a fillet knife to her, scaling her, helping her see once more:
They could not touch her.
