The Bulb

I would not be surprised

If tomorrow I rise to find something plantish

Growing out of my mouth.

You see I’ve been feeling this bulb this

Ball of not-quite-sure what

Filling up my throat

It seems to sustain itself off of my inability to push forwards and make way

It’s sprouts now making their move, their play

To attach themselves to my bones. 

No amount of huffing and puffing

Or hand-through-hair running

Or cold water splashing

Or sunken eye rubbing is going to kill this pregnant weed

That’s growing something plantish out of my mouth.

The river that contained the flow I was going with has hit a dam.

The dam is a bulb and it’s growing.