| FROM THE MUSE | BY SUSANNA FAAS-BUSH | MAY, 2013 |
He chokes the words
that coat her mind on chilly days,
a small child feeding death
to a broken-winged bird.
Yetis and goosebumps
curdle inside her until
nothing more can be done.
Crumpled up like a failed test,
she blinds the world with a blown fuse;
she scampers back to relative safety.
In a letter that she will never send,
she said: sadness is a pus.
It waits for a bad-day bruise or tumbleweed talk,
then oozes out over
my clothes and my hair
and my nails and my teeth and my skin
with the sleazy, fake moonbeams,
with the cobwebs that cling and smother,
tear and incise the patchwork
of my nerves and tendons and marrow
and pulsating worry my thoughts call home.