Your Word Is My Flesh
Take a word
any old word
and bury it in the ground.
See what kind of fruit
grows there.
Grind it up, the word,
pack it in your pipe
and smoke it.
See what dreams
encurl your dazzled head.
Your words.
Are they fine as frog’s hair,
hard as muscled thighs?
Are they barbed like wire,
sharp like knives?
Your words.
Are they whiskery pods
holding some future flower
carried into the next life
on a bird’s beak?
Your words
enter me, get under
my skin. They flow
though my veins, feed
my nerve endings.
Lisa Vihos
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