I wrote about Tina Brown Celona's poem "Untitled" at the Rumpus

Here is an excerpt:

In the end, I want to say all that should be said. That we have lived and we have loved and we have been reckless and we have held ourselves back from the brink of recklessness and at times, our feelings have overwhelmed us. “They are only feelings,” I read in the self-help books, “and feelings will not kill you.”

But who is to say how it is that we die? In the slow decay of our bodies or in the daily ache of all that we want to express, but do not have the words?