through your just-written poem as you read it
to your writing group is to pronounce a few words
as best you can, gulping, gasping in your shakiest voice,
then pause, take a deep inhale, then read a few more.

Repeat. Read, pause, breathe.
Again. Again. Till you get through the thing.

For years I have given those who cry as they read
the words of my late mentor and friend:
Wait till your breath comes.

I rarely cry reading my own work, though my
eyes often dampen when others read.

But today, with the companion spirits flitting like
fireflies around the room, winking their enlightened
selves at me, I cannot stop the tears.

Then I hear her voice with all the other dead
loved ones swirling around me:
Wait till your breath comes.

So I do. Read, cry, breathe. Repeat.

And when I lift my head, my damp eyes behold
the beloveds around the table, this community
I never expected to spring up around me,

holding me with their collective breathing,
their great hearts, so I can read what
needs reading, then listen as they praise
what’s working in my stuttering draft.

I never hear the gems that they do, but
I believe them as they believe me when
it’s their turn to pour their words onto
the table, luscious rubies that sit there
gleaming at us all.