I’m way behind on my National Poetry Month 30 in 30 poetry writing challenge. But here’s 2 of 30.
“I have not multiplied my words when speaking.”
The 42 Negative Confessions, Book of Ma’at
To be offered words when what we want are ears,
screams, a rush of invading tongue,
to swallow it or mud.
Words as apologies with intestines empty of anything
like sorry; distended yet malnourished bellies
tattletaling the empty offering.
Words are no more sustenance than ice chips
wearing away the enamel of the teeth that crunch them;
diluting to anemia all intentions.
And so instead we try offerings of silence
spend it like the blue of sky everlasting yet
knowing somewhere else it is pink-purple; maybe grey; black
bile rancid yet essential to digest
what we need; destroy what we don’t.