Words

Words

by Kara Stewart

The words are stuck

jammed

wedged 

somewhere in my throat, all jagged points 

thrust

into soft inner

flesh.

They won’t come out

They aren’t even the right ones

They are only the most used, most familiar, after decades of 

ignoring 

the dictionary,

the language

They are sloppy, rough 

patches 

slapped onto deep wounds

Instead of 

tiny, delicate stitches made with exactly

the

right

thread and exactly 

the

right

needle.

My brain wracks, trembles, groans

to find the delicate stitches,

the right thread;

stomps and storms in

frustration

at words trundled in its

corners,

hidden. 

I can smell them,

hiding.