The words staple me in place.
Hands to pen to paper.
Wedged between the edges
of page after page,
a syllable of angst
slip sliding and always
just just just
out of reach.
How it tantalizes.
Tease. Flirt that it is,
the word that tickles
on the brain, under the chin,
tongue tip,
behind the collar,
between the breasts—
ants in pants.
Caught beneath a finger nail
like a sliver of sharp pain,
red rash spreading at that point,
middle back, between the blades,
where the scratch
won’t reach.
Be still, you flea, for just this
moment.
Be mine, you, now,
held firm in my penned grasp.
Precise. Clear. Bull’s eye.
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