Don’t worry if I’m still alive. I’m
ungone, an
absent presence or
present absence
banished to the line of
my lips pressed against each other
like a line in the sand,
lips calling for allies
pressed against
their own
existence
like reassurance.
I still undo
revelations like
skin and beyond
bones,
nothing is new, just
newly superficial.
But you brandish
interpretation like a
knife,
your meanings only wounds
weeping words and
later,
you peel scabs off their scripts like they’re
your own.
What armed resistance leaps
from these pages?
Apparitions in a crowd?
The subaltern cannot be
heard
beneath the passenger trains of your empire.
Some of us cannot speak.
Don’t worry if I’m alive.
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2 comments:
I never really appreciate poetry until i read yours, katie. i think it's because i feel so special having a friend who is so good at writing it, i frequently brag about your talents :)
Aw thank you Sue. That's how I feel when I read your blog -- I never appreciated journal-y prose until you proved me wrong. You liking my writing definitely means a lot since you're such an amazing writer yourself :)
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