1.
knuckles bent back for legs
i drag into the week.
this is me quiet.
without language
i listen.
dark eyes
in the corner, two stretches high.
i wait.
they throw their voices against me
as if i could be toppled by misuse.
these sounds
dash left to right
a linear colon
syllable stretched into shoulders
short stem into my skin.
but i am not listening
for words.
2.
you need to be powerful he said
long slender fingers on the doorway
he throws them a single sound
it presses across the room
retracting their claws and fangs .
and like this
they are a room of children, books
i force my soft smile straight
the threads of my spine unstitching themselves
i am a stack of translucent pages
useless words printed against
my beaded neck and hands.
No comments:
Post a Comment