SPOKEN WORD
Unless you place your fingers
in the wound of my language
you will not believe –
I’m tracing, lightly at first, then
palpating the bruised words
until I come to the split,
its raw warmth, the slip
of bloody cuts and slashes –
I could never hurt you, so
I murmur old litanies
learned long ago, and wonder
whether I should kiss
the cicatrice confessions,
hoping my breath dissolves
their verbal pins and stitches,
seeking to pledge myself
to the ineffable – when all the time
your body is a risen utterance
of susurrated glory.