by Sasha Kohan
Like speak I can if write I could, easily come
the essay would.
To spell the what I paint out words —
to light from shadows, and thoughts
Bursting of minute hands full my gray mind,
fragments or phrases without which I’m blind.
The letters a little feel some like their sound
(sinking up floating shapes or in the ground)
but made of what are they
and do they stick how?
Gilt so my voice is and thin is my head —
to ever cling possibly voice can what’s said?
Shall it I string like a drag through wood dense?
There’s a sky in no ink
and no pencil in sense.
Contributing editor Sasha Kohan is a student at Clark University, Worcester, Massachusetts, pursuing a degree in English and Screen Studies. For more of her work, see http://www.sashakohan.com.