I’m Thinking

Annie Przypyszny

If I told you what I’m thinking, could you follow the thought with your eyes, like watching

the flight pattern of a dew-crazed bee? Or would you need it hummed in slow song before you sleep,

when your mind is most malleable? If I distilled the thought into scent, would you recognize it,

detect the hints of lilac, peppermint, volcanic ash?

Tell me you’ll taste it, and I’ll set the kettle boiling, steeping flakes of thought

so you might drink. Though I think, if none else prevails, that you could feel it.

I’ll set the thought soft-heavy in your hands. It will rub its downy face against your palms,

lick your skin with a warm, rough tongue. At the crest of its purr, it will bite into the cushion of your thumb,

then fall fast asleep.