My throat is just as soft as you would think,
sturdy loyal windpipe lines my insides,
unpaved wet and soft giggle bright pink.
Swallow that gentle breath and death subsides.
A skipping tunnel of unknown poems.
I can hiccup three quatrains blindfolded,
when my esophagus tastes just like home
and couplets begging to be molded.
There’s one clean, malleable poem untouched
huddled beneath my painted fingertips,
It is a barricaded trachea.
It is a story with no tongue, no lips.
My sacred breath travels that well paved road.
Emerge now from the vomit-corrupted throat.
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