Vishuddha

Fear lives in the throat like a swollen moon Grief lodges there in chunks—food scraps collecting in a sink’s drain Shame croaks in clenched syllables—a crow perched darkly caught in a thorny web of branches When disgrace bows and tremors its whisper leaks through wet vowels

Do not swallow your seeds of pain their tendrils will slither up that moist passage to your lips Humiliation tarnishes your teeth chewing on the cud of rancor

How can my little sparrow of joy vibrate its melody when sorrow clutches the body? How can my mouth sing a love song when it chokes with the dry cotton of suffering?