I cannot talk to you right now.
I can’t part my lips
and spill conversations out:
the sentences grow barbs,
my mouth doesn’t work,
my tongue seizes up,
and the words catch.
I am choking on them
and I can’t spit them out.
The only way I can speak
to you is in code.
I have to tell you
that I am growing moth wings,
that the deep blue Atlantic
is writhing under my ribs,
that the butterflies in my stomach
are trying to bite their way out
and I am swallowing bottlesful
of hornets to sting them quiet.
That I have stopped being a man
and have started being a pillar of salt
trying to learn how to rain dance.
That I am eating smoke.
I am trying to tell you something
but I think the cipher is written
on the marrow of my bones
and I don’t want to know
what you’ll need to do
to crack me.
