Not just any Hem

My throat is bound by the claws of a thousand crows,
offered to Dracula as a final feast
before dawn cracks the day.
Mute for three years, I scribed
non-sequiters onto tablets, paper scraps,
napkins--once, the palm of my hand.
Bored, my husband tossed what he could,
unread, to the trash.
I still can’t empty my backlog of words,
say all I’ve wanted to say.
Like Roosevelt, I tread softly,
carry a big stick, lest the crows
try to silence me completely again.

I’ve become a rag doll.
My legs wobble this way and that.
I knock over cereal boxes, glass elephants,
trip over unsteady feet.
The room turns; my personal merry-go-round,
but Frodo has pocketed the ring.

I want out from under this giant, want
to slide down the beanstalk with Jack,
dance down the yellow brick road
I’ve taken no nun’s vows for silence
or self flagelation. Chastity, either.
Pass me a hem to kiss.
With luck, I’ll take up this bed and walk.