WILLIAM HUDSON

Expectorants

Words spew sometimes
Like a spasm come unclenched

Or they seep out slow
As pus from an unscabbed wound,
Or flow like blood,

Bright, pulsing red
With lust or joy.

But most often
They hic-hic-hic
In staccato
Little bursts

As though, with a series
Of hacking coughs,
We seek to expel
Them like peanut hulls
Stuck back in our throats.

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