Write a poem that refuses to behave.

One that can’t be read in a straight line.

One that only exists if something is crossed out, folded, ripped, blacked over.

One that makes the reader do something physical — turn the page sideways, skip a line, double back.

The challenge is to make the poem itself misbehave, so the act of reading becomes part of the meaning.

What happens when you break the form wide open?

Here’s my example:

Self Portrait with My Dead

my great-uncle, Hans

[crossed out]

my great-aunt, Elisabeth

[crossed out]

what survives:

synagogues burned,

a train, a camp, designation of transport: XXIV/1

transport number: 132

22nd April 1943, Amsterdam to Terezin

a war they didn’t choose

[the way I clench my jaw in sleep?]

(the lines you can’t read

are the ones that made me)

The misbehaviour here isn’t decoration. It’s the point: names are struck through, as if history itself redacted them. What remains is paperwork, numbers, bureaucracy, the cold survival of archives. The absence says as much as the presence.

Your turn.

* What in your life or family line has been erased, silenced, crossed out?

* What survives in strange places — in habits, gestures, nightmares, dreams?

* How might a misbehaving form show that survival, rather than just tell it?

Write a poem that carries its own refusal in its bones.

The Aftershock Review is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit aftershockpoetry.substack.com/subscribe