The fins are off and the hook is embedded, it is frightening to be caught.
Tears behind a closed door and a jaw locked on grudges. Who takes
away the urge to die, the thought that death would be welcome?
Blossoms on the cucumbers, their vines tangled up with wire
and lazy cats purr and anchor me to this arid place. I never knew
that dreams could fade and fear would fill the space, or that walls
could be so thick, such an impediment to joy. To fight or to finish,
the only choices, really? Girls swallow their rage, don’t they, and then cry?
Even my tears have grown tired of my face. I should take this fear
and block it off with wood and string and sea shells. The walls would tremble
if I had my feet planted, eighteen inches apart and stuck
in the bone white clay. Tears? Merely exclamation marks hurled through the sky
like seabirds, like shackles broken by motion breaking upon the day.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
theminstrelscitadel 