Anxiety has ripened with every conquest,
salty pearls glistening, running in the furrows,
the pounding, pounding, pounding
increasing until, desecrating the temples
concentration is stolen, chaos reigns.
Then
a word is spoken, precisely pronounced.
Two eyes search poker faces for some clue,
some ray of hope in this muggy bewilderment.
The mouth opens, then shuts wordlessly,
then opens again with a hoarse, quavering,
barely audible I – I – I d-d-don’t know.
Then
other salty pearls escape their humiliated orbs.
The spell is broken. The bee has stung.
Dedicated to those who didn’t win the spelling bee.
