Weak One | poem

Stories hitch
in sore necks, climb
our throats, and yank wisdom
from tired gums—clammy
stomachs tumbling gems.
Week one of six—knitting
infinity with tongues. Between
inflated cheeks and lost teeth, we
choke ourselves with tears, spit
on paper and knotted gauze.
I’m not strong enough to hold
the holy books we’ve written—
sprinkled with fingernails—
or swallow violet sediment.
Ink glistens like pavement
in the pupils of twelve
parched eyes, begging—

how will we survive?

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