By: Meredith Thompson
Everything becomes quiet,
and I find myself able to think with blinkered focus.
I stare into a singular spot,
and I am frozen.
It’s not words necessarily that appear;
it is something else—more filled with water—
something submerged and distant.
If I squint, I can see it.
I can feel it, just on the edges.
Sometimes—sometimes—I can grab it … before it swims away,
but more often than not,
it slips through my grasp.
There is a graveyard of words
somewhere behind my teeth.
I wish I could visit,
but it’s closed on the weekends.