Imagining Disaster, previously "Stuck," edit 1

[Lizzie]

Pen a centimeter from the page,
       poised—
       like a statue:
       Could I stick this way?

Could sticky sap encase me,
swamping my throat, swallowing
my words, muzzling my mouth?
I'd be stopped in a lollipop,
       with my pen
       as the stick!

Could salty tears seal me,
—a corroded Tin Man—
my surface quiescent,
       permanently
       paused?

Maybe I'd stick like Zen legends,
mummifying through meditation,
becoming a picture—
       a pose—
       in rigid repose.

Maybe the rust slithering up my skin
is not a fetter but rather
a rattlesnake's rigor as I writhe
up in coils and ready my venom,
       poising myself
       to strike.


Original Version, entitled "Stuck"

Could I stick this way:
pen a centimeter from the page,
       poised –
       like a statue?

Could sap encase me, salty tears seal me?
Could I corrode like a rusty relic
paraded through the streets –
the patron saint of marble tongues?
Would pilgrims pray at my pen,
       pausing –
       like statues?

Maybe I'd stick like Zen legends,
mummifying through meditation,
becoming a picture – a pose – a piece of prose,
my pen a centimeter from the page,
       poised –
       like a snake.