word mouth mord-of-mouth tell
it like it is
stars like fish uncoiling
reaching the edge of blue
on a clear day
and recoiling in the green-brown
on the cloudy days.
I knew how to speak until March
when I rocked in my shell
I could walk without
Could the next month extract my pearl
like the greed of Old White Men?
Like I am ten or seventeen
afraid to move
because the eyes will always see the E.
The rest is combusting in the sea.
© 2014 by Robin A. Sams