©1996 by Jennifer Honeycutt. May not be reproduced without permission.
this sound i make would sound like you.
except for its voice
like crystal granite,
its veiny eyes that are scared
and ears that prick blood on my fingertip.
it would say that it loved you.
being with you and being scared,
that’s the same as being alone.
it would say that it hates you,
hates lilting the song that escapes from
clenched white lips;
hates dressing itself from the feet down.
it would stand at your throne,
lily white and pure,
innocence spilling into a bucket like laertes,
and drench your feet
with words you’ve seen uttered
while ears bleed,
spoken while eyes pour out callouses
and bruise the granite that is your figure.
it would sleep at your toes,
murmuring this sound — your sound
whispering that it is you,
while you hold my hand and kick my face
it would taunt you, even in dreams.