if no one gave you a name
would you answer back?
Or cast away the approbation
like a malice chained to dread
to loosen, falling into dauncy water
where no sound gets through.
If no one described the notion of harm
would you feel it?
Churning like clothes bereft of shape
or a mouth of red ink
writhing with the need to speak
truth that only stains
the corners of each day
like fingerprints without defintion
stay locked in boxes
immutable with mote.
If no one attended your funeral
would you have one?
Or drop from sight, tired by rote
to rush unseen, judged by nobody
but mauve hills bridging dark
slate, fitful against mountains gloaming
with sorrow’s cross hatch
marked like a man too long in the sun
this place of lost color and buried grief
stained in the very dermis
whether this year or a 100 hence
it will always be the same
smell the same, feel the same.
A char-woman without orbit
gathering her soot by default
like feeling the gnaw of being peripheral
before you recognized the word
and it rolled, unnamed, in your
sticky hungering mouth
the lead you sucked
that rendered you mute.