My job was once threatened if I published a poem.

I lived in another place

but in America and knew my rights.

I let the poem wait.  Oh, I read it aloud once

and silence swelled in the room like fog;

then someone said, read it again.

My job was once threatened if I published a poem,

a fact of my life I forgot,

one my children don’t know.

A journalist, sworn to truth, nothing but,

I wrote it at city desk

unassigned to the story.

My job was once threatened if I published a poem

for a public figure, no libel there,

nothing false or obscene, only love

and anger, dignity and crumbs.

The second time I read it, silence rose

and his relative, who questioned me later.

After I left my job I published the poem,

then left the place and forgot

the threat.  Remembering, I ponder

the knots lodged under my shoulder blades,

asking if one truly can leave a place

where poems hold such power.

—Linda Sillitoe