Tracey Rose

It hangs in the chest, though I aim to step cleanly. I know my place. Mourner. Some dank figure strapped to brick and mud. I know this mist, the cloud spatter mixed with eye spatter, hope fermenting on face and neck, old soup skin. I feed the mind pearls, bits of breath and want and the soft word unclothed.
They leap over malformed palates. These words. They jump over dehydrated tongues, into air unfitting, and fling themselves wildly into the tumble. They rarely make it. No matter how squeezed the words be, nor how flat they lie, some ears will never house them. It is then that I remind myself there is a sea of languages; this is just one.