Like Braille

                    A marionette,
they  divided  the  strings  on  your  arms  and  legs;  the  conjoined  halves  still  shared vital    organs.    Cracks    hairlined    around    the    stomach,    missed    at    the    middle.    They
drew memories from   your   head,   poured   them   into   a  vial   so   small   that   you   watched them   spill   down   the   sides.   They   nailed   you   up   outside   and   you   were   bleached   by the   moon,   startled   by   the   sun,   given   numbers   for   colours.   Silent   letters   punched from   words,   and,   as   the   strings   were   levered,   your   ears   became   bigger   than   your eyes.

They   are   confined   now   to   the   pulp   of   dreams.   Or   the   snakes   that   lick   a   circuit around   the   heart,   which,   if   you   dug   and   spooned   it   out,   sliced   it   apart   and   exposed the    rings    of    years,    tears    of    sap,    lipstick    marks,    your    insides    would    be    smoother than   you   thought.   When   needles   of   rain   penetrate   and   the   sun   dimples   the   blood, like    braille    your    fingers    will    find    sockets    again,    reconnect    veins    and   set   the   wick of       your       tongue       alight.       Whoami       is       now       one       word,       and youcanbewhoeveryouwant    –    a    verbatim    of    bricks,    a    solid    echo,    stacked    on    your inky skin.
                    Tell me a story, kid.
                    The salt in the sugar shaker makes no bones.

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