I try to divine from your bare back,
through the delicate braille of goosebumps,
every word you won't say out loud.

Each finger coaxes up a hint in its own way.
One stumbles over a sharp knob of spine,
a few tangle with the back of your neck;

they fumble across your skin like ten unearthed
voles, hunting for anything to translate
this riotous sprawl of confusion into answers.

Threaded through now with their own
desperate pulses, they gouge at
the inevitable obstacle of your ribs,

blind and frantic to find the thing
that will bring you back to words.