Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Don Thompson Vine This reticence, without roots, grows slowly, a vine with white leaves insinuated between vertebrae; climbs the lattice of ribs and takes hold of the throat. Tell me how long it would take if not a lifetime to strip away those tendrils, loosen their death grip, and breathe, speaking at last the unhindered words everyone needs to hear—to say. Slate This morning the light has turned to stone, something almost like slate in flat, toxic shades of gray. Implacable. I want to swing a sledge hammer, shatter the sky, and let last night's darkness back in— closer to true light, after all, than whatever this is. Next Poem
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