And I never did grasp the notion of wind, pulling my kite inside so that I might hold onto the string more tightly. And nothing pulses in the crevices between these ribs to keep my thumbs from jabbing inward, wonky and banal in their attempt through curved, ivory pages—a fluttering skim over the contents of a squall, sending up deaf dust, never to consider what might occur underneath an outstretched palm. Yes, these insides spiraled into icy cobwebs strung along hand-like branches beckoning—like the off-white wedding gloves of an abandoned bride still staring at a binding shape and expecting it to take flight. And nothing flutters in the ribcage—these seas too strange for forceful squalls— innards gulled into the refusal of letting loose and finding out how to be carried by hands other than your own.
Oh, My Word! Olivia would love to hear from you after reading this poem. Leave a comment below!
Oh, My Word! is a weekly updated blog featuring fiction, poetry, drama, and essays for the world. #OhMyWordWednesday
Hit “Like” if you enjoyed the post, and don’t forget to subscribe!