Member-only story
Since I’m on a roll with this 1000-Day MFA thing (reading every night, writing a short story every week, etc.), I figured I’d throw in a poem every month.
If my throat had all my listening,
I’d notice the wall of thorns that
unsaid words have made around
this wellspring of song that,
against all odds,
gurgles at my center.
If my throat had all my listening,
I’d see that unsaid words,
intertwined with the distorted said ones,
the said and the unsaid, all one big tangle now.
Thorns of threat that keep me from
moving too quickly or too far in
any one direction — I’d see that they
form an impenetrable wall that is
my face to you
as we speak.
If my throat had all my listening,
I’d know that underneath it, hidden
where you can’t see,
(but if you closed your eyes, you
might hear it), I’d hear the cold,
primal presence of deep water,
the fluid, bottomless
