Maybe You Should not Have Published
Helping a stillbirth
We bend to craft it and squeeze ourselves inside out and feel the labor pang, that leaves us all raw sometimes exhilarated sometimes ecstatic and we pant and heave like drunks coming to from a dry hangover and with a tooth-comb stretch and huff and hoover until the chaff goes, and something erupts and something pops
We wash the baby and toss out the bathwater then we go for a dry towel and we pull it off the rack, and use some body cream on the skin and make it wear some perfume before sending it off to an editor.
We hear she reads all sorts and has to adjust and sort them some lines there a phrase here, a picture, and she’s happy to publish with a self-credit of thanks to her name as footnote
Then there, it sits without stirring, no one wants anything to do with it
few views, no reads, no comments or cusses, no rants or curses and no claps — you failed here our dear editor, you didn't comment you didn’t compliment you did not highlight you did not clap
if only you lived by example, adding value to the piece — if it did not make any impressions maybe you should not have published
You just played courier, from here to there you wasted your own time and the space of the pub when you could have saved the piece from a stillbirth — being your brother’s keeper is also being his gatekeeper but you threw him under a night bus and forgot to call 911. Add value, Cheerleader, that too you should be, and do it with love and make it fun for you and him and for all the would-be fans
OU082021
