Poetry Corner: Hieroglyphs


There exist many ways
to draw a square:
five, maybe eighteen
sides that twist
inside and out,
touching, teaching,

My skin spreads,
pages, notebooks,
maybe binders
of white.
Blue currents guide
eyes and sticky fingers.
Sharp spiky ink, soaking
like a hungry, black perfume,
negative eruptions from
swords seeking to dominate,
to colonize.

Go ahead.
Bounce on my belly,
jump so high the ceiling
tangles in your hair
while words spew outward,
double-jointed and loud.

Whirls, lines, and dots.
My hair and eyelashes scroll.
Long lists, and wide,
bracket this gentle body
that jiggles and waves.
You measure it with plastic
and springs.
Categorize it with 
upside down words
on a calculator.

I am what you say.

I don’t know you.
What words snag
between your legs,
steal into your mouth
at night,
crawl across your tongue
and nest in your belly?
Could you,
are you,
might you be
an answer
to a question
I no longer care to ask?

Am I what you say?

I speak.
I write.
I scream my name
into empty,
hungry mouths.

Taste the tang
of my skin:
pressed, pale paper
on which lies secrets 
written in words
and Morse code.
Watch your fingers:
stained with colors, rhymes,
and sweet-smelling sweat.
I am a tattoo
on your skin,
hieroglyphs too big and bright
for you to decipher. 


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