The Overdue Confrontation

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.

What are you looking for?