I’ve been trying to will my creative work forward for a few days now, but it’s trapped, and nothing I do seems to be able to shake it loose.
The words are caught.
A coiled snake inside my stomach,
they are its undigested prey.
—
My old tricks,
light
and sound,
are of no use.
—
Deflected by the right angles of my mouth,
the corkscrew in my throat.
They can’t seem to reach
the sleeping serpent.
—
My toes curl tight,
trying to will some movement.
But my bearings are too unmoored
to call forth the language my
body knows but cannot say.
—
So stuck am I in this space,
with words that can’t escape.