Henry VIII

How little do I speak – how quiet am I?
I communicate in repetition but I deliver
discourse in another language, my history does not
connect to you and you lose the chemistry
of my intention as you sleep,

Sleep, every drop of alcohol in this house,

Pass by me, as your ears fill with lavender images
of a colorful life       even as you awake
the seal tightens as if I am not in every place all at once,

You feel nothing for what I mean or how I die.

I repeat myself like Marnier
I repeat my frown like grandeur
I repeat my limbs like Henry VIII.

A hot Sunday, no stutter in my vernacular,
I disappear into an empty bedroom,

Maybe there is nothing left of me for you to know.
Maybe another husband has taken it all for his own, 
and now I corrode with his vocal chords – maybe
you hear only him when I open my mouth –
my tongue is his tongue, and you see them touching.
Am I being compared to him in kin or are you assuming
I’m entertaining this rhythm as if you are him?
Sometimes skin is irrelevant to how we time our thunder,
you don’t hear me because we place our energies in the
expanse of different chasms – maybe you don’t hear me
because my throat was aligned by different dust, and you,

You are far away and burgeoning from contrary voids.

I am in silence. It is like you are living without me.

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