Footinthemouthophobia
I couldn’t say anything
coherent to you.
At any time the right
words would
wander into a hive
on the verge of
colony collapse.
They’d ride to the city
on the 8:10 express,
stray with the embers
up the flue
on a dark search for
the month’s new moon.
I’d piece you a phrase
from leftover phonemes.
I’d echo an answer,
the uncut response
biding time until the
morning shower or
autumn equinox.
I stumble across a
list of phobias in a
book you left behind.
There’s a word for
fear of words,
of long terms and
small things.
Fear of stillness comes
closest, but I find no
name for the letdown
of tongue-tied quiet or
the dread of anticipation
threaded through
dangling participles
and vacant
tripping speech.