You want to read
my body of work.
There is no body.
There are just
parts: neck,
shoulder,
hip, calf.
Parts do not
make a body.
Parts attached
make a body.
So what
is in between?
There is a
Chinese word –
liú bái –
which you say
as though asking
a question.
It means
to leave blank.
A space, a pause,
a moment. Not idle
but waiting
for a connection made
by an eye,
by an ear,
by a heart.
Hand, but no
holding.
Spirit, but no
song.
Pen, but no
poem.
Yet.
Jo Tyler is a queer poet, storyteller, and visual artist. A former Penn State professor and Fortune 500 Vice President, Jo retired into the social vacuum of Covid-19, and returned to poetry after decades of writing prose in business and academia. Delighted to be building a community of creative writers, she holds an abiding belief in the power of small groups to accomplish great things, from achieving social justice in organizations to workshopping a poem that just isn’t quite there yet. A member of the Maryland Writers' Association, Jo lives in Baltimore with her wife Gail and her dog Moxie.