Solitus cunctatio, or, Habitual delay

whisper
what does it feel like—

it is the metallic taste in your mouth
caused by nothing.

move a toothache
to the soft spot in the back
of your head.

a box tv's highpitched squeal
audible even on mute
that strings through
both ears.

watch a black cicada
scream away
in a dull whine
that begs
to be ignored.

force it aside—

continue with whatever—

anything but—

and you hold
within you
a power
at once malignant
and warm.

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