When she pushes
Allowing more to traverse the gullet
At first
All is well
Yet
Shortly thereafter
Is what concerns her
Not the inches or kilos or whip of self-defeat
But the cold
.
There is this chill
That rises out of nether
Slippery wisps
Rising to throat
Hovering, incubating
Pregnant
The space becomes
With unnameable terrors
Filled with force
And hidden secrets
And colors she can’t even
See
.
Here
This amorphous chill
Pulses
If only
They could tell her
What it is
How to grasp it
They only stare
With questions of delusion
.
But to her
It is real
And no amount of
Re-Covering
Has quelled this
Amorphous rising
.
She pushes when she can
And she braces
Holding on
Restraining reflexes of projectile undulation
She braces
Holding on
.
Waiting
For her demons
To pass
Letting Go 