It's been so long since creation’s
rebirth, my joints silenced by a
frozen winter mind. I lost time
between my brain's pulse; I fear
writer's amnesia. As a remedy,

a daily dose of 100 words became
my solace, more welcoming than
night's silence, a stronger crutch
than receptive breath across the
line. (Here, my pregnant pause is

shadowed.) Do you recall the sound
of my voice, animate and red? Now
rebounding from the horizon’s
mindscape, a sticky residue of our
memory, choking upon impact – the

diagnosis of my muted cavity. I'll still
float beneath you, a sonnet tucked
within your back pocket, face down but
barren when left behind.

03/31/2004

Posted on 04/01/2004
Copyright © 2024 Philippa Jane