Showered with a rain of golden nouns,
passages of a midsummer harangue,
I found myself on the defensive.
Daring not respond, I bit my tongue
and held it tight against my lower lip
like a child with a lisp
at the first sound of thought.
And that was how I spent my summer
in a pool of pride, eyes open wide
but tongue-tied at the tip,
daunted by what I wanted to say
and how to express the duress
that presses against my palette,
a pendulum in need of a fulcrum.
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