Friday, February 1, 2013

A Poem on 2.1

image source

I have a ghost in my mouth 
    curdling and foaming on the cracks
    of scorched lips.
Its smoky finger-tendrils slipping 
     through teeth clenched jail bars--
     an escape. 

(Words spat.
returned broken.)

No hatch here. So
     I swallow--

This ghost clouds and billows
     against my roof- mouth
     that flushes pinky white
     just like the shame
     singeing your cheeks.

Some things can't be 
     forced down.

It nail scrapes to a halt, 
shoves against my esophagus:
its finger marks,
as if the skin could stretch
like latex.

This thing refuses
to become 
a part of me.

The inner hollows
and organs swinging
are foreign to this
foreign body.

It is
is it?

No directional force
no up 
or down to tell
it where to go.

So I cough and spit
aand hack nd hark 
and cuss.
I cannot touch 
this intangible,
I cannot handle
this deadness inside me.

Abigail Hobbs
Frederick, MD

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