You signal with your eyes, permission. It’s a look that twists my heart. My epinephrine increases, inhibits insulin secretion and my blood glucose rises. Hands roam mountains and valleys. Hips become handles. We scatter clothes across the room. Our thoughts are scattered. Down isn’t the floor, it’s the opposite of high. My breath is caught between my lungs and your tongue, darting across mine. Pain flirts with pleasure. Whoever said lips taste like strawberries is wrong. They taste much better than that.

Do the tiny footsteps of ants make a sound?
When we concave their hills I can’t hear a sound.

Hands, wrapped around your fingers. Eyes
closed. A baby’s first cry is a sound

Never forgotten. Like the silhouettes of bodies
burned. Does the bomb still make a sound?

Take two waves, equal in frequency, opposite
in amplitude. Silence can be created from a sound.

Sometimes I forget I’m speaking in another language.
To me, my thoughts always make the same sound.

Shuffling papers, typed words on pages
even when never spoken, they still make a sound.

It’s a free country, whose prices are skyrocketing,
skyrocketing with the number of secrets.
Pick up pamphlets proclaiming promises,
but look how the fine print demands your liberty.
Everything is written in the same language,
the exchange rate for a few dollars.

Pieces of paper riddled with numbers, dollars
burn through pockets, leaving scars with pain skyrocketing.
The poor and huddled masses all speak the language,
exchanging on the black market fragments of skeleton secrets.
Torch in one hand, book in the other, let’s ask Lady Liberty
why the cobblestone was pressed with broken promises.

Collect the torn shreds of scattered paper promises,
recycle, dye, reprint, now you have dollars.
Hear the cracks ring through the bell of liberty,
sending a sound shockwave skyrocketing,
blowing the dust off old, forgotten boxes stuffed with secrets,
lies that became incorporated. We all cry in the same language.

A father speaks to his daughter in the language
of soccer games and zoo trips. Shattered promises,
fill the gaps between their hearts, fueled by secrets.
Problems he tries to fix by handing her a few dollars.
His excuses keep coming and her frustration is skyrocketing.
She desires greener pastures, to run away with liberty.

In Korean it’s jayu. In Russian it’s svoboda. Liberty
translates to the same message in every language.
Liberté, the distance between oceans is skyrocketing
as worn hands struggle holding glass promises.
La libertad! Paper sons are born spending hard earned dollars,
confusing pesos with dollars, their lies with their secrets.

The walls are willing to whisper your secrets,
silence can be exchanged for handfuls of liberty.
A binding contract, you’ll get paid with dollars.
The ultimate truth: it’s the universal language.
Homes are built on a foundation of hollow promises,
with no door to escape, and the scaffolding is skyrocketing.

Freiheit! Voices skyrocket into one language,
tearing holes in liberty where promises lied,
it all costs something. Dollars buy secrets. Dollars hide secrets.

I grabbed your hand when no one was glancing
but you were waiting, causing constrictions
of my aorta. My legs were dancing.
Epinephrine increased my convictions.
Remember that cold winter night when we
hid from the snow, filled my room with laughter?
Together we laid on my bed, a sea
of blankets between us, but then after
you left me broken and hallowed of blood.
Winter consumed my skeletal structure
my marrow turned liquid, poured out a flood,
causing white snow to loose its luster.
Your apologies can’t refill my veins
Waiting for you replaced organs with pain.

It’s been one year.
A new coach and some new players
but the game is the same,
pass the ball, slide tackle instinctively.
Focus on slight movements of hips,
the way a player’s weight shifts.
Not a single one will get past you.
Wear your jersey like the scars you carry.
No longer torn, all that glitters is gold.
The heart clenches in anticipation.
Take a deep breath. You are home.
At the whistle, begin again.

It’s been six months.
This foreign country is a temporary home.
Touches still tentative, but your mind is sharp.
Don’t let the ball get torn from your legs.
Your team is counting the strips of tape
holding you together. It’s frustrating seeing
them timidly pass ***** in practice,
waiting around to catch you.
It takes time to get back,
but you will be better because of it.

It’s been three weeks.
Every step is agony, fire worthy of Hell.
You must carry the burden on one leg,
cry behind closed doors and watch
your team grow without you.
Take one step
and another before crashing.
Feel the stitches torn from your knee.
Get back up. Fall again. Want to sit on that floor forever.
Get back up. Your team is waiting.

It’s been two minutes.
Struck in the knee you collapse
into the grass. Scream. Louder.
Time stops. Your captain signals the trainers.
It is cold in their shadows.
Put your hands over your eyes because seeing
is believing. Let them strap you to a stretcher,
strain your leg while hopes of gold
fade from your vision.
Why was it you? You were there.
Can you ever get back? Is this the end?

Even sound leaves an impact
a trace in the air that meets your ear. A planned impact.

Shuffling feet on grass can crush
the hills of ants whose homelands impact.

Bombs leave silhouetted scars,
bodies slip between cracks in politics. Man’s impact.

Vist a foreign land for a week.
Carry-back-culture-in-boxes-and-cans-impact.

The aftermath of a butterfly’s wings?
Can we ban impact?

Finally able to withstand the sharpness of tongues.
Stop walking on eggs shells. Demand impact.

When a King turns his head, let the letters roar.
Revolution makes a grand impact.

Sitting at a tiny plastic table, between microscopes
and glass bottles of corrosives,
his son lets a mouse he named Ralph crawl up his arms.
Sliding on a lab coat, the father faces his back
toward his son and pulls out subject 402.
It’s his weekend. A quick shot to the heart
is all it takes. He puts it back in the cage.
Watches it expire. Takes it out, again.
A slice of time exposes internal
organs, projecting them to the world.
Look at the heart, swollen red,
those tiny lungs unable to exchange oxygen.
His son spills crackers across the table, sharing with Ralph.
Tissue samples are cut, placed in fragile vials,
labeled and set aside.
Disposes the hollowed corpse.
The boy is hungry, clutching his stomach dramatically.
Eat your crackers.
The boy squeezes the mouse. The mouse
clamps his teeth on him until he is flung from the hand.
Ralph slinks into the background
while the boy cries fat tears, his wound extended.
He is like a man dying of a thousand terrible things.
The man grabs subject 403.
Twisting his uninjured arm around his father’s left leg,
he stains the lab coat with mucus.
Go sit down.
He sniffles, pushes over a stool and climbs to its apex.
Go sit at the table.
He leans into his father’s light.
The broken body with its skin pulled back, pieces of metal
protruding.
It’s Ralph! It’s Ralph!
No it’s not. Go sit down.
It’s Ralph!
He throws himself into the table. Swings his arms.
The vials smash. The microscope crashes.
A scalpel makes contact with the wall.
Subject 403 is catapulted.
To the boy, the body seems to come alive in the air.
But it is motionless on the ground,
Trapped by broken glass.