Bound, the Good Way
by Joanna Kamouh
Ink slick expressions never need a microphone
Instead, the words unfold in our breath and hang,
a woolly air
that swells our skin and deepens the lines
that inform our fingertips
that we are different people
Instead, they turn up the volume on our heartbeats,
our own private chants
that wail inconsistently
submitting request after request
for the trees to shake the leaves on their branches
where we can see it
So we can finally know that we really are inside of our skin
And we like it.
This rules.