It’s a different kind of tangible now
this real, this unreal.
The first year was a year of firsts,
all sore and pulpy at the wounds,
now seconds fill shadows and the gaps between breaths
it is going to be the second of everything,
it is going to be harder to wash over
a solid lump of clay in my throat
waiting to be swallowed
when all I want is to spit it out
and see it grow, form, be something else that’s other.
I was the first to have the first
now the first to have the second and the salt
that sits between jaw and bone
itches my teeth and tingles my mouth
a salty knowing I dare not allow to saline my words.
Wounds have not healed
just hidden beneath growing moss
and stone laid purposefully
a rock I do not wish to lift but is lifting anyway.
Unbitten lips know they are not to utter words
formed in the false memory
whose tongue I have clenched tight
to protect my ears from hearing
the words that ring in my head daily
and whose bells I muffle with great effort
with being good at refusing to listen.