I have written so many poems in which I say –
“I knot my tongue three times.”
I think it is perhaps in response to the reality, wherein my tongue
hangs loose, and drops words with much passion, but
without much aforethought.
I think it is perhaps in reflection of the part within me which thinks
it would be much easier to be tongue tied, and silent –
‘subservient’ may be too strong a term, but then, so am I.
I love my tongue. It is pink, and lithe, and Northern, and it pulls at my medusa
as I think. My tongue is much quicker than my hands, and often
I record, rather than write, my fictions and non-fictions into my phone.
I’m writing this poem, now, in which I will say –
“I unfurl my tongue until three times the size.”
But there are no words I can offer that will overcome, or overturn, or open up
new avenues of thought on what has happened. So instead
I sign my name, in protest.