Thursday, March 19, 2015

First draft:


The tongue is a ghost disturbing my wake
It is a lie
to call it Mother. 

Would you have me pull it out by the roots
beneath muscle and sinew
before memory of pain?
Or spool it up, silent, in contortions of 
bitter, trembling, burnt. 

It is secret and secretive
tasting only itself
till that too disappears. 
An invisible coating that curdles every flavor. 

Everything it tastes is second-hand
half thrown out in disgust, 
and retrieved always a moment 
too late, the bitterness 
of un-remembrance. 

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