Tongue

“But I never cry out in my sleep.

When dreaming of my own death, I fall silent”.

—Seema Reza, Belemnite

The thing—

the thing without
form

dissolving like vapour once
you try to shape words around it.

In silence,
it begins in the torso,
blooming upward into the chest cavity

finally flinging itself
like a pale, sweating arm
into the left corner of your brain
thrumming and taking up residence there
like a tiny heart.

It comes without a name
—a metaphor for itself

The way the gaping wound of an open night sky refuses to fit into a (single) mouth.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.