“what do you have
to say?”

I’d say I’m sorry,
sweetheart,
but every second of silence
dripped down my throat like cement blocks
and now I’m all stoppered up inside
“what do you have
to say?”
I’m not even breathing right,
sweetheart,
and the words
hit a wall
every time.

I don’t know, I would say,
I don’t know where it comes from.
I don’t know who manufactures the cement.
I wish I could peel back my skin, muscle, sinew,
and peer into the factory.