Prelude to a Poem

VOYA | April 2007

Tense, my arms feel as if they are suspending an anvil
when I hold a pencil.
Sharp, my fingernails impale my palm, excitement
turning the tips white.
Damp, sweat drips above my lips, soft and warm
like sunshined puddles.
Then, I form the first letter – I type in the code;
I feel the safe tumble, the key click,
the lightning strike, the band kick in –

Then I try to figure out what to write next.