I am old
and
I have read and written and forgotten
and lived
so many poems
steeped myself in
the angst
the anger
the angels
of the ages
and the aged
We have all been so precious;
the only thing shocking about you
is your youth
your sweet belief that you are
revolutionary.
Believe that as long as you can.
Believe it for those whose innocence has been
knocked out of their hands.
Believe it for me.
There is nothing new under this tired sun;
one man’s novelty is another woman’s gimmick;
I know the difference between
soup can and Sistine Chapel
and some day,
god help you,
you will, too.
Show me your soul
where it has burned
where it has yearned for more than you could articulate
but found a way to nonetheless
Show me where you live,
not where you play house.
Kristie Cunningham: Poetry 