NaPoWriMo 1

poetry has broken the back of my voice.
craft a bowl
from spine.
like lifted hands
waiting for something to fall
into them.
poetry is taping postcards
to hotel room walls. i’m dizzy.
i’m watching a film in a language
i don’t understand and
i’m watching my hands
write subtitles.
i’m falling asleep on my phone.
i’m speaking into my hands.
i’m sweetening my tea
with baby teeth.
i’m wringing out the last of
a cold sweat.
i’m lighting a candle at both ends
with my hands
and the candle is me
and the waiting centre is me
and the glowing wics are me
i’m alight.

– NaPoWriMo 1

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