When I think about poetry, I think about throwing words at someone bigger than myself who rules through fear. On good days, I feel like David whirling stones at Goliath’s older brother, on better days, Xerxes lashing the Hellespont. I know from the beginning of every sentence that I am heading towards barefoot, but like the first lyre whose strings were made from the intestines of goats, it takes gasps, weird looks, and some terrible ideas to get to the good stuff. For me, the good stuff is knowing that a couple of orphans overhead me playing outside the tavern and decided to break the lord’s window that night and snatch the ruby necklace he bought his wife by cheating serfs who couldn’t afford justice. It’s knowing that as the lights in the manor awoke to armored guards crashing up the stairs, they found overturned dressers and an open window. It’s knowing that the orphans, even as they were limping across the rooftops like battered birds, learned what the lyre taught me; Others may play it better and with far more grace, but let none play it with more guts.