One of the meanest thing I do to my body: to let it starve
And: to let it thirst
To let it cry without knowing why
To let it lose its language
The one our tongues took so long to learn
And now I just can not decipher
What does it mean to have a fever?
What does it mean that rivers,
Rivers of salt water released from the springs of the eyes
Could be so searing on the skin of my face
Forgive me, and let us be
Let us be amazed, once more
With the words we’ve known so long
I met her
She cried inside my face
And I could feel her question
purging my sanity
She grabbed me by my neck,
plunging me into temporary death
“Safe,” she said,
“You’ll be safe.”
I know how she lied to me,
time after time.
Her language danced,
as if I craved her every syllable
to mean something to my ears,
tapping on its drums,
Her cries are screaming statics.
I love how language is both the authentication and the ‘culprit’;
how it is both the ontology – the platform and the ever-evolving.
Thank God for language.
Thank God for the lips that speak, the pen that etches, the fingers that sign;
and for the initial rapid expansion of matter from a state of extremely high density, that has marked yesterday, today, and tomorrow, and the ever after. Your sovereignty; to You belong all the syllables, the verses, the signifier, and the signified.
This is how it always is when I finish a poem. A great silence overcomes me, and I wonder why I ever thought to use language. – Rumi