Your Tongue
That hawk is what
the wind says.
        Aracelis Girmay
Where is your voice now 
that you have moved, you have migrated? 

            What has the land done to your tongue? 

It is not dirt I hear in your crumbling mouth. 
We did not bury you. When a tongue burns, 

            is it burned always? Does it hurt you? 

I can’t understand you, or you are not 
speaking; there is nothing to say or

            there is no way to say it. I wish you could 

write to me. I miss your script.
Where is your voice? I know more or less 

            where your mouth is scattered, 

where we scattered your mouth, but where 
are your teeth, where is the gold in them?
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