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 



This entry was posted in November Chapbook 2022 and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to a story held tight in syllabled fist 

  1. neil reid says:

    Not sure why, but I like this poem. What else counts?

  2. Shawna says:

    “stalling’s easy, really,
    if you’ve breathed
    this breeze.”

    I’m imagining this being one of those beautiful tearjerker horse movies, where she gets injured and all hope is lost, until a child (or bird) brings her back to life and glory.

  3. Ron. says:

    Whaddya mean, “ink. salt. trees…”? Everyone KNOWS it’s: cognac, cinnamon, mushrooms. Sheesh. Otherwise, this poem R.O.C.K.S!!!

  4. Kir Piccini says:

    Ive had a few months like that myself …and so I sought a truth “listener” and let my thoughts , feelings, words….flow.

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