Poetry Corner: Hieroglyphs

Hieroglyphs

There exist many ways

to draw a square:

five, maybe eighteen

sides that twist

inside and out,

touching, teaching,

tasting.

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.

You.

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.