April 2012

I am an apology in your presence,

this body is a box

deaf and dumb and blind

beyond the language of regret

for everything I am, have done.

These hands move frantic

in a stupid jerk and jive,

write the words in the air

and hold my tongue still,

desperately trying to stem the tide

of things that make you angry.


He has “stop” tattooed
on the palm of his hand
and presses it flat
against his heart
in time to the music
that tells him
that still being here is a sign
of the insanity he’s feared so long.
Her disease making a home
of his hapless limb and artful eye
at least
the word a meaning.