Chameleon Magazine

 We gathered the voices,

laid them gently on the table,

said all are welcome,

said nothing sharp will touch you here.

The pages breathed easier.

So did we.

But craft is not a blanket—

it is a whetstone.

It loves the hand enough

to resist it.

We praised the breaking of rules

without asking which ones were learned,

mistook the absence of gates

for the presence of roads.

Growth was promised,

but friction was edited out,

and the poems learned to speak softly

so no one would have to listen harder.

This is not cruelty.

This is consequence.

Art does not fear care—

it fears being spared.

So let the work be held,

and also weighed.

Let the editor’s pencil

be kind because it is precise.

Belonging is the door.

Rigor is the room.

Both must exist,

or the poem never really arrives.