reaping.
2006-07-07 3:34 a.m.
without the words, the feeling withers, curls, winds itself thick through blood, settles in the heart, and waits.without the words, i am
a day starting and ending
independent
of rotation, of chance, of
conversation.
i catch my hands when they begin to threaten, to curl up like children to their own middles, but in all this movement they still adorn me in half crescents, in old rituals of which i have not quite gained freedom.
without the words, i speak heavenly language. my throat
cannot be coerced into submission, and hurdles the air up from small lungs. i am
brittle inside, cracked, made up
of bird parts and bird longings.