by Ada Hoffmann
The words that I wanted would hurt me. Mouth-bullets,
jack-in-the-boxing out of my skin.
I would shout them and bleed from the chickenpox holes
where they tore their way out. I have dug
for too long in my innards, a prospector
tearing things out for display. (My spleen
is nicely framed in teak against the window.)
Today I will sit on my hands
and be whole. I will not disturb
the surface pressure of silence.
Breath fills this body
enough, empties enough. You and I
will not be torn again today.