When words fall out,
I have to stop everything and allow them
to arrive. Nothing else must matter.
It’s a tricky dance.
Too much waiting and they get pissed off.
Too much coaxing and they retreat.
They’re fussy, words.
They’re fussy because they’re attached
to emotions and the emotions are tied
to wildly bobbing ships on the ocean
and the ocean is married to a moon
who’s seen her share of excitement.
The storm is intense. Violent. Who knows
where the ships will flail next. Or perhaps
the clouds will part and the entire watery
landscape will flatten, leaving the ships
suspended on glass.
The stillness looks pleasant. Pristine.
But it’s the storms that beckon the words.
– Nisha Moodley