Before a Wisp of Sound

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A musty burlap sack descends over my head,

and my tongue cements itself to my palate.

A frog squats in my gullet, gulping

down every vowel—

before

a wisp of sound can

leak out.


The more I force the words to escape,

the more the boa in my throat coils, tightens, constricts.

The more you press, coerce, lose your temper,

the more the truth curls

inward,

seals herself away—

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