When a Poet Catches Gravity

Artwork by Varvara Smirnova

Nothing about her is poetic. 

Her laugh is not poetic.
It doesn’t fall off her red lips
in shy giggles like the rhyming
couplet of a Shakespearean sonnet. 
It is loud.
It is disruptive.
It interrupts conversations
and pauses coherent thoughts.
It lifts the room
to the constellations spotting the sky
in its bubble of hope. 
Her laugh evades all laws of gravity.
It encapsulates the room in unapologetic happiness.
Her desperate attempts to catch her breath
result in high-pitched squeaks 
of destructive perfection.
Her eyes crinkle and she bares her teeth.
She makes fantasy an actuality.

Her tears are not poetic.
They do not fall off her cheeks 
in silent metaphorical verses
like waterfalls splashing into a creek. 
They are not figurative language.
They are wails of disappointment,
screams of pain,
weeps of agony.  
Suddenly the atmosphere is a burden;
gravity crushes the room
with merciless vindication. 
With every sob she shivers,
her bones shake against 
her weak limbs.
All sense of time is lost 
as the mascara blots her dry cheeks. 
She makes nightmares reality. 

Her anger is not poetic. 
It is not steely cold like a dactyl,
nose in the air like an anapest,
poised and sophisticated like an iamb. 
It is vengeful.
It is violent.
It is hot tears of disgust.
It is red knuckle stains
against a white wall
and strings of cuss words 
that gravity sinks to the floor.
She only stops when she
loses her voice in
shrieks of rage
or when her arm 
aches from breaking 
everything in her way.
She makes insanity sane.

Her envy is not poetic. 
It is not blatant, 
not a green refrain
or a repetitive jealousy. 
It is soft, quiet, filtered, 
a message read between 
the lines of eye rolls.
Gravity targets her harsh face,
each scowl a wrinkle pulled to the ground.
She feigns aloofness, but the 
rooms swerve to 
avoid her death glare.
She makes pretense concrete. 

Her forgiveness is not poetic.
There are no line breaks in her rambles
and no verses in her apologies.
It is a chain of i'm sorrys and forgive mes.
Her words are gravity 
and they fall on your chest,
convincing you she will change this time. 
She barely catches her breath
and looks at you with intent,
and a hunger for acceptance. 
The world crumbles around you.
You’re surrounded by her pleads, 
her adamant voice refusing to give you space
because she can’t lose you. 
Never, ever did she mean to hurt you.
Forever will she be apologetic.
She makes doubts absolutes. 

Her love is not poetic.
It is not wrapped in melodious syntax 
and charming diction. 
In fact, grammar fails to exist.
she loves in phrases
in snippets of thoughts
in have you eaten today
and let me walk you to class 
her love is wrapped in 
gifts that remind her of you 
anything you want
she will give you
everything you need 
she will provide 
she slings her arm into yours
and pecks your cheeks
ruffles your hair
pokes you to make you laugh
annoys you until 
you roll your eyes 
she makes annoyance admiration

Her love is your gravity because 

She is not poetic.
She is poetry. 

By Dvita Kapadia

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