Sunday, July 28, 2013

The Silent Treatment

To hell with it. My tongue’s gone under, 
curbed like an excess. No more 
wagging in the shallows, it’s plunged 
in a tunnel to the underworld where 
they stump in a strange dialect. 
Eat your heart out, it might say. Eat 
your pilaf, your side vegetable 
and the pox upon your crops. 
It might say anything, were it not 
lounging around a lower hemisphere. 
Laid back at some southern spa, mud-
bathing, overdosing on motionlessness. 
Enjoy the quiet. Fleshy puddle, pond 
pummeled by too much rain. Make pretty 
like a lake today: hold yourself in.

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