The Small Words In My Body

Believer I am, but admit it:
words will not cure everything.
Breathless unless in the mouth,
on a page, they are crushed black spiders.
They have nothing to do with the details
that make a life.
Every language is different and none exact.

Close the books then.
They cannot cure this.
On the shelf they clench
each other, spines rigid with silence.

This beaten leather bag,
my body, these buckets of blood and bone.
They are my own.
There's no way to drain or erase
myself.

Openings do not close.
My blood writes a story
I cannot believe.

I crash in a sea of white sheets.
I sharpen my scissors
and select a knife.
I clip and slice
the small words from here.

And the splitting cells,
the tale whispering in my blood
cannot protest
but shreds to silence.
I scrape out the scrawl, this mistake.

As with my kinder nightmares,
I forget just as I wake.

By Karen Connelly