There is a feeling in my hands,

by Chelsea Wood

There is a feeling in my hands,


a restive, potential energy,

drawing inward, reaching

for the words tangled

like heartworms in the core of my body

infectious parasites unwilling to transform

to complete the metamorphosis from abstract, ugly sensation

to coherent dialogue, plot, symbolism, metaphor;

unwilling to release the strangling hold,

to take apart the twisting nest they have formed around my heart.


There is a cut-off, a disconnect,

preventing the tendrils of feeling from penetrating

from translating.

Impotent waves

that rush back to my fingers,