The 2nd Day of the TongueShira Dentz
My animal pushes through a length of sentence, gray, mangy. A bear lowers a stick into an anthole. If I had a tongue, my father wanted it. It wasn’t nice not to give it to him. I wasn’t nice. I disrobed from girlhood and took a boy’s voice instead. Muzzled and conjoined, like the b in numb. My father, farmer of clouds, stilled. I’d like to have my heart cracked like a knuckle, for waves of lightning to ripple out. The currency here measured suspended overhead like some kind of fruit on such a familiar tree—sycamore? you don’t need to see it anymore, tied up in bags weighed heavy with n’ts.
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