untitled IX

your hands on my cheeks like a sculptor

listening lightly to stone

for the ore to rise where it lingers

for my skin to speak to your fingers

gently, your hands like a sculptor

as if to carve out my bone

and

                why are you holding your breath,

                you said

and

                why are you biting your tongue,

                you said

your fingers like blind needles probing

the words on my lips like a cry

the creases releasing the pages

the unspoken teeth telling ages

your fingers like blind needles blunted

from sewing the world to your eye

 

Lewiston, CA

The End

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