Acrostic: first words of the lines spell out another poem:
Enough plots and characters who refuse to spring to life.
Fiction means to wall my hope off.
I’m back to poetry.
Enough of this writing fiction shit. I’m done fabricating complications,
plots twisting like a noose around my neck,
and binding up my mind and hands.
Characters who won’t speak or when they do,
who won’t say what I want them to. What if I
refuse to write another word of fiction? (Refuse/refuse?)
To whom would that matter?
Spring’s happening outside, robins darting
to their nests, forsythia spinning forth in lemony froth---
Fiction writing just
means more rejection letters
to add to my growing sheaf. I could
wall resentment into my despair,
my heart breaking every time my agent calls. Or doesn’t.
Hope stands heavily beyond a fence, like a horse that’s being broken.
Off in its own grey pasture. Enough.
I’m loosening my lines, my lies.
Back to poems, the lovely purposeless, hopeless joy of coming back