I’ve kept my vow of silence for a month,
or four.
Itches in the larynx like the prisoner’s file
and smells like years before
when we sat down on the road
and sang the Iceberg song.
[One stretching throat
if well tight,
can hold a soul for a life
(perhaps, even more).]
-they have waited for NOTHING-
I can hold a hand
but it never feels enough:
atoms buzzing and heat convection
just won’t
keep them
any warm.
I can left me for dead and keep smiling
like everything’s according to plan.
I can say sensible nonsense
in this soft
mumbling tone.
I can bury alive my mother tongue.
I can cut and stick old words.
I can even call it p-O-e-T T-r-Y
I can, I cannot let them know
about the Iceberg Song.
I
have
seen my future.
My future, staring from the patterned wood.
(the tree rings say I’ll be thinner,
you should start worrying, too).
