“Words disappear” struggles my bitter mouth around.
A thought, a bloody lump
I excise like a tooth,
fragrant cold air rushing in afterward.
I too had been flush with them: sentiments,
at once priceless and excessive
like the hordes of dragons,
as compressed as metals
hours were pounded into.
My lips drag on the bit of this jealousy and I feel the nerve go dead,
it makes a sound like the makings of a breeze at the end of a tunnel,
hoarse echoes in my throat.
Evelyn C. McLean 