Making Sense
By Margaret Adcock


My stories stopped making sense. I tried
other words, new orders.

The music was like the wind. The wind was like
a dream of an old farm house on a plain. Beyond

this all I could do was move my hands. First strangers
then friends

looked at me like goldfish, moving their mouths slowly
over and over. Or maybe I was the goldfish, gulping

incessantly. I want to connect. I want to be heard.
Imagine being what other people call

intelligible! There was a man who lived in a cave
for two years. He spoke to the small ordinary

objects he depended on. Hello, shovel. Hello, axe.
Matches! My friends!  Simple eagerness on his face

as he spoke. Perhaps each answered
in its own, useful way. All I know

is that this is like flying. I run across the open stretch
before me, flailing. Arms wide, then beating furiously.

© 2009 prickofthespindle.com