Lord, I ain't asking to be the Beastmaster gym-ripped in a jungle loincloth or a Doctor Dolittle or even the expensive vet down the street, that stethoscoped redhead, her diamond ring big as a Cracker Jack toy. All I want is for you to help me flip off this lightbox and its scroll of dread, to rip a tiny tear between this world and that, a slit in the veil, Lord, one of those old-fashioned peeping keyholes through which I can press my dumb lips and speak. If you will, Lord, make me the teeth hot in the mouth of a raccoon scraping the junk I scraped from last night's plates, make me the blue eye of that young crow cocked to me—too selfish to even look up from the black of my damn phone. Oh, forgive me, Lord, how human I've become, busy clicking what I like, busy pushing my cuticles back and back to expose all ten pale, useless moons. Would you let me tell your creatures how sorry I am, let them know exactly what we've done? Am I not an animal too? If so, Lord, make me one again. Give me back my dirty claws and blood-warm horns, braid back those long- frayed endings of every nerve tingling with all I thought I had to do today. Fork my tongue, Lord. There is a sorrow on the air I taste but cannot name. I want to open my mouth and know the exact flavor of what's to come, I want to open my mouth and sound a language that calls all language home. Copyright © 2017 Nickole Brown. Used with permission of the author. |
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