Photo by Jason Knott
by Genny Lim, May 10, 1999

What happens when the poet loses her tongue
When metaphors scatter like feathers in the wind?
When the will to speak vanishes and
definition is contrived as lipstick on a corpse?
Concepts are as countless as flies,
Desires as numberless as needles of pine,
Tall as redwoods bursting through a canopy of sky
We slip like grains of rice through sacks of memory

Names of things are like
Runners set afoot, hunters turned quarry
With fresh blood on my hands and
the smell of flesh I wander
inside this marked grave known as life

The poem is a mirror
a messenger trapped
inside a cage of appearance
And the listener attempts
to claim in the barter
the shadow of her own body
inside the dream of her own being

copyright 2001, Genny Lim

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