“I Am”


I am the breathy vowel
of the syllable
that fills you like a balloon;
the smooth swing
of the ‘i-n-g’
that wraps around in rings
before it takes off running—
skipping, jumping, fluttering
head first
into a pair of ‘ts’.
They freeze—standing snug as sardines
amidst the clatter
the taffy-stuck chatter
that sticks to the back of your throat
like butter, caught forever
at the edge of
ephemeral bookends.

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