VII. A Throat Full of Graveyard Soil

I try to cry out, but my tongue is a root, That tastes of the copper and tastes of the soot. The words that I once wore like silver and silk, Are curdling now into vinegar milk. For the garden has climbed through the gate of my teeth, To blossom in shadows that fester beneath.

A handful of loam and a thimble of peat, Is the harvest I’ve gathered for something to eat. The vowels are heavy, like pebbles of slate, Falling down deep with the pressure of fate. I’m breathing the dust of a thousand lost names, Of candles extinguished and flickering flames.

“Speak,” says the raven, with beak like a thorn, “To the city of ghosts that has yet to be born.” But the soil is a secret that’s packed in the jaw, Obeying the ancient and terrible law. My throat is a tunnel, a chimney of stone, Where the wind whistles tunes through a flute made of bone.

You’ll swallow the silence, you’ll drink from the ground, Until every heartbeat is muffled and bound. For the dirt has a hunger that never will cease, And a throat full of graveyard is all that is peace.