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.
Thankyouthankyouthankyou
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
HERE
Julia's home on the web is: www.paintedpath.org
