wrestling

the words aren’t coming

which is odd because

words always come for me,

I pull them slick from my tongue

or squeeze them out of my blood like

juicing a tangerine, pulp catching

sticky in-between my fingers glinting like

semiprecious citrus jewels.

but tonight no words come.

the fear makes them crawl back cold into

my molars, huddled fetal position shaking.

I tell them there is no need to worry--

they don’t believe me they are scared

of something but they don’t

know what and that is more terrifying

than actually having something to be

afraid of.

my poetry sucks without you

I say. they giggle and laugh before

growing solemn and grim pointing

out across the night sky like

look look don’t you see the

stars have been sucked into the

blackness and the cold Chicago smog,

soon everything will be

drunken up and in by the greedy night

sky and we will go swirling into

this black hole of oblivion crystalized

like star gods but not ourselves.

I tell them not to be silly this is all nonsense

but they stuff their ears with cotton

to my siren call of normality

clean each other’s tears off

tell me it’s coming—can’t I

smell the burnt rosemary

swirling change that drifts thick as

church incense past my

forehead worry lines.