Light spots or flares on a blurred background, with pops of fuchsia, blue, green, and yellow
Photo by Miguel Á. Padriñán from Pexels

It’s on the tip of my tongue.
The word’s shape nearly fills my mouth.

It’s teasing me, leaving me
hushed, silent, agape.

My tongue is unsure of the almost-an-echo
pushing and pulling my lips.

They’re trying to follow consonants and vowels,
places the articulation might dance with my teeth.

I am, with increasing frustration,
feeling for the ever evasive.

The sounds’ vibration, their flow, friction, and aspiration
are as familiar as

the, uh…
a… an, um….

What the hell is it
that I’m trying to say?



Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabay

When everyone around you is on fire
it’s hard not to imagine
you’re the match
the gasoline
the starter
An arsonist making art by the light of their blaze
Smiling, dancing, dazed while they flicker and glow

When everyone around you is a fire
Flames make promises and you know

you’re next



Ariel Blaser

Ariel Blaser


A curious writer, linguist, and tutor living as a tumbleweed on the North American continent. Can’t seem to settle into one niche or genre.