There is something in my throat.
It isn’t a word-
It has no sharp edges,
No cutting corners
And the words never come first, anyway.
It could be a sound-
It feels loud, curved,
Salt slicked and voluptuous-
It’s rattling in the back
Metallic and repetitive
raking against the tongue to get it to talk.
Who is chained back there? How many?
Begging for company or begging for change?
Not me, for I am here-
Although, now that I think about it
Today I am halved,
A penumbra of someone else
With a fuller hip and a squarer gaze.
It’s warm in the yard
And the angel next to me just inhaled-
But my throat catches me again.
Collared, I chase until my tether chokes me tight
And I am yanked by the hands of other sufferers
Into this dream world of rights and wrongs
There is a liminality here
That only two shadows may turn to a right
Against the ever-fading, ever-moral light.
My limbs judder in the dirt
Aching for me to stop writing with my fingertips
And to find creativity with my hips.
They beg to find the blood clot
The ink blot-
A stint or a stammer that made my heart and my soul and my words stop,
But deep down they know that this is no glitch or hurdle.
There is no typo in the way my thighs burn.
Artemis and Apollo are sat either side.
They sit and play god with my chains.
They have none of their own- there is no restraining
What brings the day
And what tugs the sea.
They mesh and blend into something else
Some other idea
In some other town
Where there are no whispers of parents or friends
I kiss them both
And sound comes out.