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In this winter I have learned silence. It is morning
and still I am unstirred, mute, death-like.
A hunger wrenches my gut; I do not speak of it
to anyone except
God;
he does not listen and I vomit blood, bile from
a place too often thrashed.
For hours I will pick at my skin,
hope to contract leprosy;
then I could collect the flesh
straight from my bones, make a heap
and call it by your name.
And if I spoke your name it would be in verbs:
fuckfuckfuck—until my tongue
turned to a swollen muscle and shut me up.
I would again know silence, violent as it is
when I grind it with
my teeth.
Your fleshy effigy will witness me crying
when my leper tongue turns black,
my mouth like bats.
Poem copyright ©
Pedro Trevino-Ramirez 2002. All rights reserved.
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