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Writing is a hammer swinging in air, a wind blowing leaves in fall.

The snow comes as if it matters. Cats meow. Children play.

Nothing sings like the tap of my keys.

The Muse stands, an echo in the breeze. I hear something—is it even a sound?

Then meaning flashes up in a bud. I feed it sunlight.

I feed it breath that holds light in a flicker and beckons darkness in thought.

Nothing sits like a ghost at my window.

I send it away.

I waiver in feeling and balance desire on my toes.

Now grows out of a heartbeat I cannot hear. I sit. I listen.

My house talks. I want to talk back.

I want to clothe the emptiness as easily as I put away laundry.

I want to toss you sky as if leaves were meant to turn into stars.

I want to climb to the moon as if a mountain top would let me touch it.

I want to scream.

I dance to music that turns the earth.

I want to shake the universe until it spins faster than light and makes me walk on my hands.

I want all mirrors to show me the face I don’t see.

I want to hide behind the Wizard’s curtain and be the smoke that can scare even the fearless away.

I want to shriek till I cannot hear my voice any longer.

I want to sob until the moon shows its back side.

I want to fold into myself until I am only a crease and a seam.

I want to dig a hole as big as God’s eye.

I want to whisper away this life until it is less than a nightmare and more than a dream.

I want to teach indifference nursery rhymes I can forget to remember.

I want to steady my hope on a needle and thread it into the lies love tells and truth denies.

I want to gather the past into a quilt with pictures so I can take shears and cut it into swatches to patch the space between here and there.

I want to stop now.

I want my Muse to stop shaking.

I want her to strip me of desire and swallow need.

I want her to swallow me.

 

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Ed: Brianna Bemel