The dialect of my lips multiplies
into the bed of roses I have grown ever since I could,
stringing out pieces and pieces and chunks
from the skin of my body, and from the looks
I have pertained in my eyes, in my gestures,
and though my lips tremble like a dilapidated
drum bearing thumps over and over and over,
they form cohesive, certain, careful words
which transform into roses quite different
from the ones I find growing in my garden,
and they screech an indistinguishable noise
every time I’m told that the dialect, that my dialect
is that of a fox in another land,
scurrying silently behind the lion,
the roar of the king of the jungle,
and I’m told my roar, however distinct, is not my own,
and I avert my eyes to the back of my hands,
leaning in, at times, to trace my nerves
just by looking at them, and wondering
how many of them have found the skin
they belong to, how many call it their own,
how many have found a medium to express in words,
in silence, in zipped up, choking throats,
in locked bathrooms of locked bedrooms,
in the chaotic noise of the metro,
in the breathing sea–how many have found a sound
to the lips, to the words they speak?
How many would exchange me of my dialect
to grow flowers, of any kind, just their own?
(Never known, never known, only felt in the
rushing of your nervous nerves, too afraid
to speak the truth.)


15 thoughts on “Unuttered

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