For those who just never got it

This will
pick at the knots
of your years
where stanzas and
rhyme schemas
were the ababa
of babies babble
and old men forgotten.
This will dissolve
the cement
of metaphors
such as like
beyond your mindscape
and things you give a damn about.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a smell.
It is your nostrils
flaring
at the fennel of
tea after the storm
in the mug.
It is you drawing
steel from the safe musk
of your fathers embrace.
It is hospital disinfectant
and the camphor
of bereavement.
It is the stinging talc
of gunpowder
and earth of the rocks thrown
by children who should not
be looking so intently towards death.
This is
a poem.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a taste.
It is strawberry softserve
more on your fingers than tongue.
It is the cardamom of sweetmeats and family
bursting through the roof of the house.
It is the spice of home.
It is the spearmint of that first kiss.
This is
a poem.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a touch.
It is the cotton of his shirt
before he slipped away from you.
It is the bubblewrap of distraction.
It is sandpaper smooth against wood and bruised on your skin.
It is your mothers arm against yours
when all was strange.
This is
a poem.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a sound.
It is the comfort of mantras.
It is the pull of prescribed prayer.
It is the ribbing of gutstrings.
It is the first heartbeat of that which grows inside you.
This is
a poem.
I want this to tell
you that
a poem
is a picture.
Can you see it now?