510
Something came to me on a frost-chewed winter morning. 15 years I had lived rarely touching my feet to the snow. Now 30 years of living, the snow has melted and returned many times; each time new words, each time a new winter. I don’t know how melon-drenched words come to me in shapes of edible stars feeding me with a literal sustenance, built as earthmovers writing themselves into terms of endearment, into life altering stanzas and continue to imprint their weight into the moistened ground, always a few steps ahead and a few steps behind mine. They are as real as papercuts, coating the wounds like honey. I am asked to articulate where this comes from. What can I say besides one day I woke up choking on air and found words on the floor beneath me. No explanation. Every color, every texture. No education to it, no explanation at all. It is unknown why cherubs live inside my stomach and jubilee carve words into the inside lining - cheering excitedly when they know they are being written, when they hear them spoken, when they feel they are about to choke a new life out of me.
