POETRY

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The Mute

There’s a poem inside me.
Just one.
Embedded, 
Impacted, invisible to
Anyone who takes a wrong turn
Toward my eyes,

or toward my lies.

Sometimes I get close to it,
Even see it—
This beast in a cave, 
This echo in emptiness,
Impenetrable cocoon.
It burns my hands so 

I describe the pain.

I call them poems, but 
They’re not poems.
They’re visions I 
Relay, secondhand,
In clumsy, fumbling words 
That get me no closer;

I am mute.