I Can’t Talk About It
Lan nie Sta bi le
My gut, that vengeful city of insomniacs,
swaps tales of trauma with the loose twilight.
Terrified of optimistic things, like the sun, it
drowns sealed lips in caffeine, surviving on
muddy irrigation and anxiety, hollowed and
hungry, nibbling on fingertips that stretch
for perfect words, and refuses to let anyone
within spitting distance of a soft underbelly.
My tongue, that talented freight train, has been
known to tap out the rhythm to “Anything Goes,”
My womanhood, that lost and weakened wheel
squeaks, even as I weep to keep things moving
along. Every day I am misrepresenting myself:
Am I the apple, the serpent, or the whole damn
rib cage? Protecting a man who refused to protect
me. For years, I have been howling on the inside,
raking my soul red and raw with the need to tear
this story out of my body, and still I can’t talk about it.
but when anything went, everything went, and I
am going anywhere and everywhere. Are you
following? I can’t talk about it. It’s like a scream
that keeps getting caught in my throat, but the
scream is actually a pair of men’s hands, and his
cufflinks snag at my vocal cords. Just like his
fingers snagged at my trust, and my closed eyes.
Dragging me from a peace I will never have again.
My mouth, that deceitful poet, spoke forgiveness,
but how can I forgive my skin collapsing in on
itself? My bones drop away, even as I stand here,
and the only thing I can do to stay together, is
shove myself into pockets of an oversized sense
of loss because I swallowed his apology and
series of paintings. Three paintings of a single
flower. As if jeering at the femininity he stripped
from me. As if he knew this was the third time
my body’s been broken in this exact same way.
22
Cauldron Anthology