Where did all the words go? I used to feel them in my hands, my feet,
They were the wiring in my knees, my spine and hips, the parts that
Hold me up and open.
Where are the sounds, the humming Muse stirring and singing
In the way she does, at midnight or in the kitchen, eyes gleaming
And her invitation, "come dance with me"?
Where even is my pulse, for often I found it impossible not to bleed
And show what my whole self was made up of, a river of red,
Proof. I am the living.
Where, from here, can I go?