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.