It’s strange to have a poem in print. The moment it happens, it’s no longer yours. It has left you for good and has a life of its own, a being with its own voice – no longer a projection of mine. I remain locked in its words, yet now outside its intimate ecosystem.
To know my poem is out there, on somebody’s shelf … They can open the magazine and read my words. It’s like throwing a letter in a bottle into the sea, then knowing someone has fished it out, someone has read it.