breathing deep in my mother tongue

wonder what it’s like to be written on a body

they’re all marked up either way:

memories tattooed into the valleys that wrinkles make,

words scrawled across the knots in knuckles

wonder what it’s like to have been in that room

where your mamma held you

and you learned how to scream,

learned how to grab a person’s arm

when you wanted attention

and when that attention

became a friendship,

you still screamed to be heard

wonder what it’s like to walk down those streets,

hands in your pocket,

Singing a much different song than the one I sang

when I walked down my streets,

my hands swinging beside me.

we’re scrolls, because we keep unraveling –

there’s always more room to write.

Scratch your etchings on me

so they’ll become part of the décor

that people have to pull back the curtains to see.

I like to keep the curtains closed.

you wonder what it’s like to be written on a body?

it’s a little like

setting the table

for guests who never show up.