Glitch
       

There's a burr buried in my brain's wool,
abiding as a radar blip, and culling's no good
because of this haywire bit (I'm slowly going it),
losing my grip on my lips, all that tip-
of-the-tongue business, plus this bouquet
of aphasias and -lalias that I can't shake,
never mind the stick.
                                  And soon it's not just that,
but this, this something else, this sticking
of gears, this mile of pulled stitches that ravels
out of my ear, this tear that comes from nowhere,
this fritz, this hitch, this itch that won't quit,
that begets the grains of something like regret
and sows them everywhere.

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Copyright © 2014 Claire Wahmanholm All rights reserved
from The Cincinnati Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission