Alexithymia by Ari Augustine

Her body will break like a jar,Spilling the contents of

Pickled words, candied-ginger

Filling the base of a saucer like

Rocks cast into a Seer’s pond.

 

Her words are vessels,

Cargo ships split by seams with

Memorabilic photographs,

Motives tacked to cork boards

Falling apart, she opens her

Mouth, nothing right comes out.

 

Her eyes are the soul,

Cerulean blue lines on a map

Clay basin of a dried up crick where

Compasses with eager needles

Never point South of

Her thinned lips clamping

In combustion.

 

Fractured irises cut words into

Confetti before they’ve the chance

To make their escape.