The poem pushed my pen to the side,
closed my limp leather journal,
shook its head once,
and glared.
Its left fist gripped my pain,
its right hand clutched and turned
my jaw, forcing me to look.
It swiveled the pain
back and forth
like an oscillating fan
on the slowest of speeds,
demanding I view
every angle.
It insisted I revisit,
relearn and unlearn,
with every twist
of that hinged wrist.