Holy Freedom


In the midst of chopping onions
and digging unnameable parts
out of the chicken carcass, before
I'm almost late getting them to soccer practice
I scribble words - words that come from nowhere
or from some mysterious
somewhere. Words that ask, no - demand
to be written down

they are here in the shower as I reach dripping
for my notebook, here
in the wanting kitchen when he
tells me about his day. Here
when I should be
focused on driving
rather than taking dictation

I am a drunk driver swerving
from too many
words, words that tumble
and spill and ask, no - beg
to be heard.


I say to God
or whatever it is
that sends them

I pull over the first chance I get
so that I don't become one of
those people who kills
while intoxicated and write dizzily
urgently - I don't care
that my hands smell like raw chicken, even this
is a metaphor
for something. I'm sure. After
they all come out
I exhale
saying out loud to the wind

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Artwork by Julia Fehrenbacher, available

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