::Osmotic Sensibility::

When the right words meet,
they hold hands,
caress each other's cheek,
loop a wayward lock of hair behind a flushed ear;
they kiss and wrap around each other,
honestly,
passionately,
unabashedly,
shamelessly.

When the right words stroke the inclined perception,
they saturate it with poignancy.

As I search my memory obliviously
for the defining moment,
the certain realization
I had earlier,
the words cling to the lead of my pencil,
dangling but not falling,
as if held by a magnet.
I pinch,
tuck,
pull at them
with my clammy fingertips.

Increasingly agitated, I suck them off my salty fingers,
gnaw at stubborn residual letters.
I slosh them around in my mouth,
and they wrap around my tongue
like curly strands of hair.
I spit,
cough,
wipe my palm over them.
They refuse to let go and materialize
yet are intent on becoming.

I crumble the blank page and frame my face.

I have a truth that needs a shelf to sit on,
a place to rest.

Slowly, I pull my hands over my eyes,
nose,
cheek,
mouth,
chin,
neck, push them over my chest,
stomach,
lap,
thighs, and finally cup them around my knees.

My forehead meets the cold table.

I close my mouth
and swallow,

hoping
for sensibility

by osmosis.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wish I had something more fitting to offer during
National Poetry Month, but--for better or for
worse--this is my current reality.