Risk is a topic artists often talk, discuss. When poets look over each others poems and give constructive thoughts, the question often comes: what is this poem risking? What do poets risk by making our private thoughts public? By committing experiences, afflictions, lies, and shames to paper? What do we risk to gain? What do we risk to know? What do we risk to change? What do we risk to reveal? What do we risk to risk? This risk business can become all very abstract. I believe that every poem is a risk of some sort. Even if the risk is spending precious time on something that sucks. We were five poets strong on this bustling Saturday in New York City. Any one of us could have been doing many other things. We risk time. I had to tear myself away from my novel, which was actually going well for once. I risk momentum. Joining us for the first time, Ngoma rolled out of bed and flew...