i was born with a dead dialect sewn to my skin
having a specialty for its translation.
a dragon shelters in my house and my room
is always a furnace leveled down.
the boy in the mirror sees, first, a scarcity
before his mother
makes him a supper of bone flakes with a bowl
of salt water.
how closed is my mouth when i yell grief
out of my sweat.
my mother rebukes me for mingling in the dark–
i complain i was christened with it.
today, i fling tailored lungs threaded with silence.
the underside of my lips is rancorous.
the origin of rot is history & my mother takes
a shiver to the stream making all footsteps
thump back as a howl.
Header photograph © Monica Denevan.
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