They Ask Why We Need Poets

It’s always the same: they ask about my job and I am tongue-tied by the question.

I tell them I write poems and they are quick to call it futile.

It does feel silly at times, being so moved by the way the light changes

in the afternoon that I have to tell about it, and that I voluntarily return

to the ache again and again, that I peek into the inky abyss and report

what I find, that there is something about bringing myself

to the water that makes me sure (sometimes) that there is some kind of God,

that I take it upon myself to find new words for old feelings

and I wander so far into my longing that sometimes I have to lay on the floor.

They ask why we need poets and I say that without them

the most you could say would be it’s red when you bleed.