When I declare, as I often do, that prose isn’t about anything, I mean it’s not about anything but the violence it holds. The violence of silence, the violence of suffering, the violence of turning away from another’s pain—each a form of silence in its own right. Rumi speaks of entering the rose garden and making peace with the thorns, and I am in that garden, striving to reconcile with the inherent violence of language—of the poem. I am trying, trying to articulate my own violence, my silence, my suffering. Each one encapsulates the other.

When I say prose isn’t about anything, I mean that poetry isn’t about anything but the violence it embodies or, in their violent expressions, attempts to resist. The thorny roses of the poem pierce the silence, forcing it to bleed its truth. And in that bleeding, perhaps, there is a semblance of peace to be found, a fragile reconciliation with the inevitable violence of existence.

In every word, there lies a struggle, a silent cry against the suffering that language must endure to speak. This is the essence, the true heartbeat of prose and poetry alike. 🙏🏾❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer