To the Self-Described Young Up and Coming Poet Who Tried to Steal Rachel McKibbens' Poetry

To the Self-Described Young Up and Coming Poet Who Tried to Steal Rachel McKibbens' Poetry


You were aiming for a prize but
You tried to lift something
You cannot lift
Something that took seven years to write. Or forty-two to survive.

You tried to lift something
That was the languaging of someone else’s survival.
Something that took seven years to write. Or forty-two to survive.
You cannot call it your own, though.

That was the languaging of someone else’s survival:
Ink and blood.
You cannot call it your own, though
You did pay someone to push ink through a needle into your arm,

Ink and blood,
Marking you forever.
You did pay someone to push ink through a needle into your arm,
Something to be remembered,

Marking you forever
As a thief. A thief of words, a would-be thief of memory and blood.
Something to be remembered,
Though not the way you expected.

As a thief, a thief of words, a would-be thief of memory and blood,
You are almost as small as your broke-down regurgitated poetry.
Though not the way you expected,
This has undoubtedly been educational for you.

You are almost as small as your broke-down regurgitated poetry.
You tried to steal a real poet’s truth, but her truth is bigger.
This has undoubtedly been educational for you.
You can’t carry off that kind of truth.

You tried to steal a real poet’s truth, and her truth is bigger.
You were aiming for a prize but
You can’t carry off the kind of truth
You cannot lift.