Other-lips whispering between my legs.
What they called black hole not-thing
is really packed full of secrets. A rebel mouth
testifying from the underside. Careful
not to let it speak too loudly. Only hum
demure in polite company — never laugh
or spit on the sidewalk or complain
lest we both be dragged under the wheels of
one of those. Or worse coddled
smiled at as at a lapdog acting wolf.
Or worse called ugly a cruel joke. Or —
there are always worse things.
Too many messengers shot. But then
who wouldn’t fear an eyeless face
whose ghost stories always come true?
Source: Poetry (March 2014).
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This poem originally appeared in the March 2014 issue of Poetry magazine