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The Relic
Your tongue, Saint Anthony, that twilit slug
of speech we keep encased in glass,
was glowing when they opened your tomb,
their faces rooting, like dogs, through your bones.
We strain to hear what you said
to the crowds that gathered, your tongue wagging
with gliss, what you said to make the fish
raise their heads and breathe our air.
Dear saint of all that is lost,
we had no choice but to rescue this creature
from your mulched mouth, your decay,
so we might pray for what has escaped us:
our wedding rings resting in shower drains,
our parents’ youthful bodies,
the backyards of our childhoods,
our stolen children,
our sick friends whose hair now loosens
from their scalps, leaving trails
like dead languages we can no longer decipher.
And you, we pray to your tongue
for your rotten ears, that you might hear
our longing, our starving,
to find our old selves, those dog-eared selves,
all our biting dogs.
Return to Volume 1.2
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