Ice

the ice jam of words
long lodged
at the back
of my throat
has begun to melt
syllable by
delicious syllable
that tickle going down
they roil in my gut
conscious
kinetic
unsettled
pressure of repressed feeling
building against
the shape-shifting mass
that remains
blocking my flow
will I exhale
delicate crystals into
my waiting palms
cough playful snowballs
that explode harmlessly
on contact
or will I shout ice daggers
that penetrate
sting
with icy reproach
draw blood
that stains
the pristine landscape?

© 2018 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved

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