“Anything I’d have to say has been said,”
she told me over lunch. “What’s the point?
Who cares?”

I feel the tiny writer sigh deep inside
my spleen, the one who grips the pen,
try to keep the are-you-kidding-me

disbelief from splashing across my face,
as she adds, “It’s not like anyone’s
going to read it.”

And, given that opening, I say,
“I’ll read it. I’ll tell you what I like
about it, what will stay with me.

I will tell you about the parts
that stopped my breath or made me
teary or laughy.”

“And,” I say, as if I have this deeply
embedded in my cells, as if I don’t
have to remind my own bad self

now and then, “it’s not about who
reads it or likes it. You can’t know
if anyone will, and it doesn’t matter—

though some people will like it,
though never tell you that your words
rang for them or helped them

see something they hadn’t
recognized or remembered.
We write for us, dear one,

always for us, just as painters
paint because their hand reaches
for the brush, or the guitarist

tunes before playing what’s
in his heart, or any of us can
burst into song—without

judgment, just because, as
creative souls moved to
put something into the world

that didn’t previously exist
in our one-of-a-kind voices,
we can.”