I Shot the Poet

At least that’s what it feels like.

There must be a wound somewhere, though as many times as I search, there’s no blood seeping through my t-shirt, no gash on my brow, no gaping hole in my thigh. I can’t find my pulse, can barely feel the contraction of my lungs as I gasp. Even the glorious spring sunshine flooding my room and such welcome warmer temperatures haven’t stirred words to the surface. When I open my mouth, silence dribbles out. My fingers feel frostbit, unable to peck out sentences that bring sense to anything I’m twirling through.

I’m trying to decide on a second mangled line to my song…..maybe it will be as simple as “I shot the poet, but I did not shoot the knitter.”

This reminds me of a quote I recently read, a thought Dame Edith Sitwell shared regarding Virginia Woolf: I enjoyed talking to her, but thought nothing of her writing. I considered her a beautiful little knitter.