There's a knot in me
where some
nimbleness used to be—
a supple expanse
once known as
"later on."
If only I could
draw someone's
attention to this mass,
these ganglia unyielding
to the endless arm
of light.
But the voice which comes
from the throat
of this gorgon
is ruinous and false,
and the entrance
to my everywhere—
which she guards
with a bloodlust—
however enticing,
is ironclad and dark.
There's no use in trying
to untie me
from this malady;
the two free ends
of a string this gnarled
are always
somewhere else—are always
far apart.
