Irreplaceable

IT IS A STRUGGLE, trying to revamp Marianne Boruch's Cadaver, Speak, that is. Monica and I had picked (well, actually I think I just told Monica which one we were doing, sorry Monica) #14. At first because of its short size and seeming lack of complexity, I thought it would easiest to reciprocate. But I wanted all of her words.

Her first line is Love. It isn't what / I want. I was still thinking, this will be great, just pick what should be there, it will not be too difficult. Love, I thought. Oh wait, silly me, that is already there. Love. No. Love. Why can I not think of anything else? It was a puzzle piece I kept trying to jam into the same spot. Insanity, they call it, is repeatedly doing the same thing and expecting a different result. 

But the puzzle piece fit perfectly there. Her words fit perfectly. Why would I jam something else in its place? Part of why Marianne's poetry is so good is because each word has a purpose, each word was deliberated over, and proved itself worthy in being there. That is something I will think of in revising my poems, because each word should try to be irreplaceable.