a divorce. I harness the words
in the back of my throat, numb
with other platitudes: “What’s wrong?
Are you okay?” I can’t feel my tongue against my teeth.
“Fine. Everything’s fine.” Pharmaceutical
words, empty sparks of electricity,
random neurons signaling
red flares of alarm.
Found her pictures on your cellphone. You called
her “brown sugar” because she’s not vanilla
like you, but black, unlike me.
By what other nomenclature is she to you?
Babe. Sweet thing. Hot piece of ass.
You were always just huckleberry to me.
Synthetically manufactured “I missed you” –
linguistic mouth guard perfectly molded
for moments such as these.
My throat swells
with raw words butchered
from the Me inside of me, my brain
glitching, searching for the right
language they’ll wear as their
meat-suits, but nothing fits
so they squeeze out my eyes,
salty, burning like brine, like the tide rising and ebbing,
waters anchored to the moon.