Why … it’s a one-word poem
Like black or white or death or …
It’s unmentionable now.
I have been torn. Scarred myself,
Ran a purple fingernail
Down with the ease of licking
A stamp. Wretched and broken
And bleeding and sure of life,
As I am sure of nothing.
But they haven’t let me die.
No, not god enough for that,
And they have taken me like
A useless white stone, so round
And smooth, like the silver moon,
And placed me on the river
To see if I would sink or …
It’s unmentionable still.
Even the silence knows it.
Children know it by heart, they
Sing it in rhymes and jump-rope
Contests, skipping like small dogs.
Parents know of its reaching
Hand, unendurable to
Think of or remember. It
Reminds them of something too
Dark to be stomached for long,
Like a toothache or a r*pe,