Blocked

1. Water condenses to molecules,

and thoughts about two oxygen atoms

fastening themselves to hydrogen

suddenly intrigue you.

You imagine your kid-sister

as oxygen, binding herself to you

because when you two merge,

you become solvent, flexible.

And then not even Dorothy’s cyclone

can rip you from Kansas.

There’s no place like home.

2. You notice how negligent

you have become with your cuticles—

such uneven peeling,

flaking into hangnails.

You shove them back under the skin

with a chipped index nail,

slip, then bleed.

Red stains white.

Suddenly, the page

lacks nudity.

3. Scabbed, a thumb scrolls

through your ex’s iPod.

(You’ve always loved his taste in music.)

You bolster your back because it’s

been stabbed too many times

to support the weight of a broken heart.

4. You watch the sun slump over your

shoulder, and stars unveil themselves.

Exhaustion fumes your tired eyes.

What more can you offer

than a bountiful vocabulary

and a billion beginnings?

But the paper scoffs,

the internal editor rejects the words,

as well as the pink hat on your pencil.

5. 5 hours. Still nothing.

Distractions create ideas, right?

6. A journal pushes up against

your inner thigh, beseeching

your fingers to tantalize its page.

You fondle its fibers with

its favorite felt-tipped pen.

But black ink pushes itself

further inside its safe haven,

afraid to bathe in

the blank.