a story held tight in syllabled fist

see, here’s the gist: 
this poem does not want 
to be told. she’s holding it all 
in way too close to feathered 
chest assuming playing dumb
and stumbled silence best
for flying below 
the radar, 
or snow. 

see, here’s the ghost: 
of chance, she cannot speak. it’s 
been a week or two or three since
falling. stalling’s easy, really, 
if you’ve breathed 
this breeze.

but here’s the list: 
ink. salt. trees. 
with these, she just might 
burst open like a down 
pillow 
(fight)
, 
take 
flight. 

::

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