Locust & Cinnamon
circa 2019
Locust and Cinnamon
I did not use my tongue to form your body's shape from clay, or bake with wasted breath that clay to brick. Warm words could not have kept you here. They could not carve the canyon's walls or fill its depths with flowing streams. No sediment or speck of dust exists because I spoke. My tongue can only taste cinnamon grains, the skeletons of locusts, wax from wild bees, and liquor poured by former friends. Did I keep them against their will? I watched each one without a word. They broke it off with logic, sound emotionless serene. As though it'd never been.