as a ship in a bottle
believing every wooden piece
a symbol of something
that can be shaped.

I see each fragile word nestled in your
lined fingers being carefully homed.
Eyes straining, focusing,
anything can be built despite
the small opening.

You laugh
when I tell you the ship
will never sail.
My words, random particles,
amass to nothing.

“Write me a poem.”

I could not confess to you that
there are days I’ve been in my mind
so long, I’ve gone mute.
I can’t see the lines anymore,
my words, useless shapes.

I couldn’t tell you that I believed I was
running out of voice, that you would look down
to find the final piece
only to discover emptiness,
amass to nothing.

Everything has a mass you can measure,
a limit, an end.
You told me the universe is infinite.
I try to imagine the dark hollow of my voice
as the night sky. Something that extends pass
my vision,

but there was always
a single line, a final sentence,
a mass, a body to let go of.

– Annalee Fairley