Inexplicable

It doesn’t roll off the tongue.

A poet friend suggests excising it,

since stumbling is a sign

of wrong word choice.

Yet inexplicable belongs in a poem.

Belongs in every poem.

Is a poem, in and of itself.

Inexplicable.

It’s why I bother to put pen to paper.

It’s the reason for ragged keyboard rhythm,

late night blue screen blanching my face.

Inexplicable.

How we rise each morning,

instead of burying our heads

under bedcovers,

sewing them shut.

Why we keep on

welcoming babies

with bone-deep joy

to this sordid world.

How we fill burlap sacks

with grit and gratitude,

our hands shredded

as we drag one over the other.

How we refuse the daily pull

towards greedy dark,

keeping at least one toe,

some of us whole torso,

in the light.

Inexplicable.

It’s what makes a poem

worth writing, worth reading,

worth flooding the world

with redundant, flawed attempts

at explanation.

It’s just the way it is.

There is no other way.

Stumbling every time,

practice or no.

Just part of the bargain…

the unavoidable,

intractable,

inexplicable

bargain.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston