Poetry

Mother Tongue

Photo Credit: Jesse Wagstaff Flickr via Compfight cc-by.

A language pulsates
underneath my skin,
a language in which
I await a dream,
a death wish,
a language bequeathed
to me in a night of
hushed love-making.

There is another language
that waits, makes its presence
felt among the shadows.
Deep into the night
when the axe pierces my body
and my guts spill out,
I shriek
in that language.

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