Poetic license authorizes me
to break some grammar rules, to twist a word,
to stretch a metric foot’s capacity,
to host ideas my parents called absurd.
It grants me room to battle paucity
of language, and to fancy someone heard.
It let me play Scheherazade of poem,
and kept me sane a thousand days at home.

(Ottava Rima)

This is the final poem in the House Arrest series.