I Strike Stones
2009 May 31
There is a warbler stuck in my throat
just above the Adam’s apple.
I can only breathe when he sings.
He pecks at the original rind.
He creates holes for my soul.
He enters this fruit,
the landscape of my flesh
where words are rolled
like dough.
If only I could allow him
to complete his work,
all would be fine.
Instead I strike stones together
to create sparks.
The words travel up my arms.
I strike them harder. I like it.
I like what I am hearing,
but they do not become wings.
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