(untitled)

Words used to tumble

in my mouth like smooth stones.

Fractured, now I choke

on them, broken teeth,

cutting the soft scars

inside the pink cheeks

so they bleed again.

The dentist says nothing,

but sees better than

the priest the way faith

has fallen out of

my mouth, the way lips

and tongue crave new prayers

made of milk and honey

to cool the throbbing

of this silence, this

hollow that echoed

with voices like organs

and chimes, and tongues like

warriors. Are there words

to stitch up the cuts?

If I hold a pebble

against my gum, will it

put down roots, and bud?

One response to “(untitled)

  1. Pingback: Poetry Blog Digest 2019: Week 43 – Via Negativa

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