Thoughts march in like ants, piling behind

my eyes. They remind my neck that it lives

 

inside rope, and when my lips part the ants fall

the length of murder. They bound my blue

 

bloated lips. They casket my sentence to

silence. My voice corked—caught, throat

 

in wine. Artillery lives inside my chest, 

where my heart barrels loaded

 

like a gun. If the words blow out,

 

will they hang outside comprehension’s

ears? Or will meaning sear the back

 

of my tongue? I’m the rat’s jaw stuck

in glue; words rush out in blood and

 

expire. What am I but froth and feeling?

What is my mouth if not a catacomb?