Often, I beg: Open me. Please.
Fill the wound with something I can use
Deliver me words like a sunbeam gilding dust.
//
The words come too much, not enough. I can't
pin beating wings to cardboard, or map the movement
of a firefly unless it's in a jar.
//
And so it's like, shut up. Adults are talking.
How will I ever know when I'm hearing it right
if I never listen?
//
They talk too much: be teachable, patient, pliant,
ready with my knife. When it hurts to hone
it's working.
//
The vase is only dangerous when it turns to narrow diffuse light.
The wound is still waiting to be heard.
Are you listening?
About the Creator
Suze Kay
Pastry chef by day, insomniac writer by night.
Find here: stories that creep up on you, poems to stumble over, and the weird words I hold them in.
Or, let me catch you at www.suzekay.com
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