Saturday, 1 July 2017


stock from pexels

Words sit in your mouth like stones. Where your tongue should be, dark, glistening, velveteen, there is a pebble. A tongue, or a pink fish with tasting scales, undulating softly like chrysanthemum. Pretty, but I wanted you mute. So each guttural glottal, fricative or uvular phone stutters as it comes, choked by a stone.  I hooked it out and set that white, smooth rock for your teeth to bite. For your jaw to hinge shut. To set your hand to write. Literature.

©Amy Leonard, 2017