(if that’s what they be called)
to say this right,
but my blood—
the very veins themselves—
trickle, like
bricks one on top
another cemented together
but small enough
to fit inside me
blocking, stuffing
there’s not an inch left
for me
no insides. Just blood.
I could burst
but have no words
to do it with,
the ones you’ll know
to say what it’s like
this me getting down
next to you.
And you don’t say a single
word to get my blood back,
pumping again,
bricks cracking
cement pulverizing,
hardness crumbling to dust.
Oooooo baby
what you do to me
the wordless way you have.
[+]
Philip Vassallo is the author of Like the Day
I Was Born and American Haiku.
