When Words Evade Me
I gnash
my teeth,
fidget, worry
my fingers together—apart.
Then I pace
around and around.
I stop, start,
force myself
to stare out the window at the hogback
spread like a giant knotted rope
across a lapis sky.
The ridges of the hogback resemble
the lumps of grey matter
I imagine
compose my brain—twisted, impossible to navigate.
I move
closer to the window glass,
cold against my palm,
and notice the light, inching from the west—
a giant waddle of gold-red
rambling over the hills,
forming itself to each twist of rope,
each curve of grey matter.
Still, words withhold themselves
as if they don’t exist,
as if the slow, painful tread of man—
from non-speaker to speaker—
is a dream.
