Words hard as stones

All the words I never spoke in time
in the flashing moments when they
could have, might have but didn’t –
they follow me like vultures circling
so that I know something rotten
lies in the field. The apologies
never delivered age in the dead
letter office of the brain, yellowing.

But the promises’ broken shards
have worked their way into
the mattress and poke my sleep,
words I should never have said.

Gossip, curses, whispers behind
closed doors, in bed; words
hurled in argument, justification,
the stinging gnats of lies:

sticky words, overpoweringly
fragrant like lilies in a closed room,
rancid, spiky. Such are words made
flesh, made bread, made dagger.

>Marge Piercy | Marsh Hawk Review

ash @ 8:15 PM