When the course is over

What will I do in the summer months
and after that, in the years to come?

What will I say when my poems talk to me
as I pluck them out of my heart as if

they were jars full of words I could eat;
as I lay them out on the page and polish them

until they hover above the whiteness
in all their not-quite-there-yet splendor,

but still shining and wanting to be read?
Who will I show them to

as they gasp for a breath to be dealt to them;
for the page to be plumped-up, pumping

their hearts into full thump;
as they gasp, their first raspy breaths,

that could be their last,
with my fingers poised to write

but the pen never quite touching the page?
Who will read them, then?