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At My Throat
January 11, 2015
A ceaseless jaw fails to slacken:
grit teeth, biting tongue.
Eyes pressed to slits,
words forced though cracked lips
There are times when breathing feels like wheezing,
and once warm hands sting like whips
there’s nothing worth the fight
I loose track of my words,
and leave myself lost to your wit.
When it simmers down to whispers,
I am left:
to take the last hit.
© Emma C., Gardner, MA
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