The mouth of the narrative opens wide

Out of its throat slithers a word

The word vibrates in a landscape 

Where the plants eat its particles

Somewhere far away it echoes

The word doesn’t feel like a word

Anymore 

Sound mingles with sunlight

The narrative nurturers a desire to

Belong

Under the ground connective tissue

Transmits whispers of stories

Forged in the belly of a storm

Folded into soil 

Unbound by ideas of soul

Interwoven into magnitude of song 

Under the thoughts spoken in languages 

A feeling percolating in ways that

Seek tentacles of expression 

Lips joining and parting

Tongue twisting within

A mouth

A womb

A jellyfish tends to liquid

A person attuned to air

And a word pulses in a 

Mouth

Open wide

A narrative of decay

Vernaculars are born from

Ash and stone and thought

Wet in the space between lips

Life’s teeth await for the 

Tongue of death

To lick them for meaning to be made