listen:
to the lisp of your pulse.
to the glisten of your soul’s
shadow over hope. this is the sound
of your screams at night,
your jaw a bursting pandora’s box.
your terror that you
are no poet or poem,
merely
redundant. in a church, confess:
dead memories and invisible prayers.
please, forgive me,
but never forget me.
listen:
to these desperate words.
here is the lonely witness
to life’s cruelties and mercies.
to the lisp of your pulse
and the glisten of your soul.