‘Drought’ (new poem)

I once saw a small-scale demonstration of a flash flood at the Denver Museum of Nature & Science. It terrified me.

By Maggie McGinity

Scrape the bottom.

This started as a choice
To reclaim my voice
When someone had taken it away.
Now you all force it to stay
Every single blessed day.

My words have no impact.
This is fact.
They bring me more pain than promise,
More sorry-to-be-honest,
More difficult truths
I don’t know what to do
From the inside out, I’ve grown sick.

Scrape the bottom.
Gather the few drops left.
When this is finished, what’s there to gain?
Scratches and markings which will remain?

I am still the summer last
I am what I’ve lacked days past
But in the smallest quantity
I am what’s missing in me
What leaves me in misery.

I’m so tired.
I’ve run dry.
But I still can’t say


“Tears may be dried up, but the heart – never.”
-Marguerite Gardiner

“Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?”
-Kurt Vonnegut


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