The poem has an intention
Could it be?
Could the words just bleed right through me?
Could a poet be a vehicle for the poem
The way salad is just a vehicle for the dressing?
The way (some might say)
A mother is just a vehicle for the child
But wait, she thinks, I made that person!
I’m at least half responsible
He’s my baby!
Yes, but to what degree did she create him?
There is such magic in life, such miracle in creating man,
Maybe mothers are just a conduit
Maybe poems, like people, have intentions
Though not always clear
Or, if clear, then unspoken
Wonderously waiting for the perfect moment
To come alive