what there aren't words for yet
What those hummingbirds in your chest whisper when you tell
your first lie. The toothy rumble of the lions that scare
your lungs into giving up. The edges of a leap—half-murmur, half-yell—
the steer your feet away. The guffaw from the shadows tempting you to ignore
your own magnificence. The boisterous roosters pecking holes in your plans. The tire
tracks cajoling you to stay on course. How we search for a plain sentence
to fill the cracks of heartache, for language to pull us, like a ladder,
out of each dark and muddled well. We think thunder is a metaphor. Or the fence
dividing one yard from the next, its own instruction. But the story's yours, you know.
There is no better way to say it. Make the words up as you go.