the steel rod - two

The steel rod returns.

I am caught like a spear-stabbed summer trout immobilized in its migratory path, words scattering, mind darkening to despair, fingers trembling above waiting keys.

I name this killer of creative pursuit and it releases a little, a small vibration as shoulders fall, chest muscles relax, and the heart opens.

And from the heart the words leak.

I want to cry with sheer relief at the curtailment of certain dread that nothing exists above the steel rod.

Meantime, my good friend writes at her school of fine arts, receiving encouragement and instructions, while I sit alone receiving lessons from only that which has no name.

I must press. There can always be edits. Always.

Another deep breath. The trout escapes with a wiggle and a thrash, swiftly swimming upriver, eager to tell the rest of the story.

the steel rod

I come to this page with a steel rod in my chest.

It feels cold and unyielding as though if I bend at all I will pierce my entire being and I will exist no more.

It keeps me from breathing.

It keeps me from writing.

But as they say, a writer must write, so I will bring this steel rod with me to this page and write until it softens.

Until it begins to let me breathe again.

I will recognize this steel rod as a temporary un-friend I must disengage from every day.

It hangs on as if to let go means death.

And it does mean death.

Death to the un-writer that is me.