I fear some words, if spoken,
would tremble panic through your skin
or worse, a shudder of revulsion,
wake a fear lodged waiting in the ancient
hollowed memory of your bones.
This is an unspoken poem.
This is a three-in-the-morning poem.
This is the unscreamed scream
that echoes in the chamber of my mouth.
This is a silent poem.
This is the silence that seals
the lip of a wound.
