Poem #21


I’m passions paled away ashy, waiting 
for a word to flutter, hinging on this 
fingernail, and that one scratching 
out phrases in Sanskrit––working out 
how to form all the words again after 
punishment removed my hands, tongue, 
frontal lobe. My saving grace is singular: 
lizard skin ready to repair trauma left 
in the wake of much needed mutilation.


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