 |
| 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--
No.
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:
pressing,
pressing,
pressing
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
what
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
No comments:
Post a Comment