as the white crow flies

qualtagh

writing is a form of terror:
a hand exploding from your chest
with a still-beating heart;
your legs cut from beneath you;
an invasion of tiny truth-eating
insects in the crannies of your skull.

to put down your words is to spill
your most tangible fears, for to write
is to make the unreal into the real.

I try not to imagine you lying wasted
by a crippling illness - try not to think
of what it will would be like to wait
by your grave - try not to let you die
in my stories except held tight to me.