The beauty of poetry is a trap of transparency. It is the terrifying luxury of saying so little that every word becomes a wide-open door, or perhaps a mirror that refuses to lie.

In its succinctness, it strips us. To write a poem is to stand in a crowded room and realize, with a startle of cold air, that one is entirely naked. It exposes the writer to a great vulnerability, not the kind that seeks pity, but the kind that exists in the breathless space between a heartbeat and a sigh.

We reach for powerful language, those heavy, shimmering stones of speech, only to find they are windows into our own absurdity. And there, in the silence of the page, the truth emerges like a cat in the dark: the use of such words shows us that, yes, you might very well be an idiot.

But what a relief! To finally be the fool. To stop the heavy machinery of being “important” and simply exist in the small, sharp light of a stanza. I am an idiot, then. And in that undoing, I am happy. It is a happiness that doesn’t need a reason; it is the wild, secret giggle of a soul that has finally stopped trying to hide. 🤭

©️ Beatriz Esmer