Something about the throat the back of it how it opens to let things in
how certain things can’t get down it is a trapdoor opening onto the dark basement
there is water there things floating I am up to my knees I can’t find them anywhere I am covered with rainwater there is flooding in our county I’ve got a problem with my glands
they swell up I can’t swallow there are lumps in my throat I am twelve I am sitting in the lunchroom I can’t swallow my milk someone wants a memory that can’t swim up
someone is grownup and thinks of strings pulled from the backs of throats dreams of long wet hairs unwinding from her tonsils pubic hair nestling in freshly laundered diapers
the bleach smell and softener form a net for dreams that won’t slide down the throat how she writes a poem about the backs of throats how her mother died last summer with an
open mouth open to the back of a parched, blistered throat that forced the woman to swallow her dreams a hand opens her mouth reaches into her throat pulls the folding
stairs down a dark tunnel pulling the water in behind her the water full of milk of hairs of everything she remembers from the year it never stopped flooding.