My muse speaks with a razor tongue,
and spits prescription pills,
an idolized mental patient
speaking sanity to my spongy ears.

Crafting words like stringing pearls, fingering the pebbly surface
through two left thumbs-
all I can conjure is mush and stones.

Nothing to do but huddle in the earthy dirt.
Like the dead poet,
whose head burns in an oven,
mine is stuck in sand,

fuzzy feedback -steady static-
a multitude of grains
scratch the backs of my eyes
like gnats in August steam.

The appeal of that warm glove,
which offers more comfort than
the hugs we never earned
the kisses never planted.

A young Plath- with an itchy brown wig-
digging into dirt,
clawing to be pocketed back
in the womb of warm sand.

These words are my work and
I’m starving from this lexical expulsion.

A perpetual dance of the tongue,
spilling words that empower
and define meaning
where meaning is void.

The difference is- I have no children
to pocket the traces of my sanity-
or scribble colorful inkblots
along the cave walls of this home,
stacking building blocks of a lingual legacy.


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