Hoarse vowels dry
up in the wind
of winter
the trees refuse to bend
the lead stays stubborn,
as lead.
(It cannot be gold).
The letters reaching, fail
to form.
The vowels, coarse, dry up
like eczema, like your skin,
in winter.
Curtains drawn, the deed is done,
the throat a vacuum.
There is only the flesh.
All its secrets,
all the rest,
hiding.
My tongue is dry,
my bones are dry,
drink its history
eat its path
smell where it has been.
I cannot speak another word.
Read the eyes, read the hands,
do not ask a thing again.
Feel the skin, touch it softly,
pull the secrets to the surface
coax the marrow to the air,
use your fingertips
use your veins
use your breath.
I cannot speak another word.
Let me lay, prostrated,
(for it is all that I can do)
let me sleep,
and perhaps my dreams will walk out to you
and be Diplomats, Allies,
Patriots to the host.
Visions may grant you
what you seek,
that I cannot say,
for,
I cannot say another word.
Only watch and do not ask
do not question
the rivers on my face,
only lick them—
taste my fears.
Roll up your jeans,
stand in the current until
you are chattering,
until you are paralyzed
with solidarity.
Do not speak.
Only hold me
only hold me.
Watch my lips
still and silent
do not kiss them
do not ask for them to move
(For you)
trace them with your eyes
wonder what horrors have passes through
and what sweetness
use your fingertips
use your veins
use your breath.
I cannot speak another word.
This is my only sonnet, now,
this is my only song.
Winter froze the larynx,
the wind stole away,
is gone,
and cares not for the mute.
Interpret what you see.
Feast.
Drink.
Gorge, please,
please!
For there is food enough to fatten
but it comes with no receipt.
Can you read it?
Can you hear it?
the space between the lines
lays glaring
it echoes on and on
and waits for trees
to fill the canyon.
Hold my body
read it softly
for I cannot speak another word.
…
..
The show is done,
I lay backstage
the song is sung,
I’ve heard the praise,
so do not clap
do not say a single thing.
Take off the dress, the final act
come lay with me,
and sew your mouth
and trace my palms
and press them taut—
the Audience walks out
back to their cars
back to their hearths
back to their lives of yesses and nos.
they leave behind the librettos
along with ambiguity
in their seats.
Nevertheless,
I live backstage
come lay with me
don’t come with coronations
don’t come with conversation
only your flesh, raw
and unadulterated.
read the blood
read the sweat
use your fingertips
use your veins
use your breath.
I lay backstage,
I wait for none.