From the Ground Up

Erin McLysaght

this is what it feels like

to dig fingernails into my brain:

oil slick and heavy as tar,

every groove dragged through to create a melody,

creation's music box,

sulfurous fog and hollow bones to chew on,

dug up and consumed,

ice down to the marrow

backwards and forwards,

nothing is familiar but you remember

everything.

I want to pull the damn thing apart;

rearrange my matter until

even I don't know

which way is up.

I want to shatter my own atoms like glass

blown-out windows in a fire,

this factory for blood clutching and seizing

tearing at the walls.

I press my face to the prison bars

hold them close and

dig in my nails.

I pry them apart.

I am overpopulated

with silence.