Tuesday, April 16, 2013


This is the place where I keep secrets

and it's swelling with them, as if ghost baby's

waiting inside, as if my insides still had the means to feed

smaller bodies. What can you hear, resting

your ear on my belly? I've scrambled the words,

so the pieces of me

I keep to myself

sound only in code, as if I carried

a mockingbird in my womb.

At night, the bird cannot keep from spilling

its insistent song. You just need the key to these trills.

When I'm sleeping is when the song

starts, you can chart my cryptography.

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