I had not thought my face would ever
seek the sanctuary of my hands,
but there it was,
not bowed in grief,
not merely mourning
the life unlived,
the love deferred by fear,
but wrecked by something else:
the animal heat
of language gone rancid,
the static hiss of what I said
when the body was full
and the soul was not watching.

I remembered, yes, remembered
that there was once a chance
for tenderness to grow untainted,
if only I had spoken
with less theatre,
more skin.

And now, this morning,
the carcass of words
I do not recall releasing
lies curled in green bubbles,
sweat-slicked commands,
the syntax of a stranger
panting in my name.

I read them once,
and again,
then never.

There is a violence in revision.
There is no such thing
as un-saying.

And so, palms;
these awkward altars
receive my penitent skull,
not to hide
but to listen
to what silence might have said
had I let it speak first.