Door of Air: Poems by Morgan Yasbincek

By | 1 February 2022


it was night when her tongue
became a plant, grew out of
itself in fronds, presented buds, made
stems of language into shade

it had played long enough with potentials, waited
compliant in its cave of vows of constraint, but
the waters it sat in were thick with the heavy chemistry
of these things, it wanted to cry out, find a company
of ears, dance with those winds of voice
trained for silence

it talked in her sleep, told the quiet
room this was not the place for her, not the right kind
of ears here, when something alighted, sipped nectar
it became a plant, unconcerned with crooked
channels of silence, finding its veins flowing from a
different source, girdle torn open, binding fallen
away, window something to pour through

as plant it chooses to be more tender, relinquish
questions of voice and expression, to wait, partake
only of cooling tendencies, of sweetness

this is how she gave up trying to breathe under pressure, see
behind walls, walk blindfolded, by a kind of lucid
sensuality, by reaching anyway

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