I hunger for the chance
to run my fingertips along the seam of your lips
where remain
the holes the needle left behind–
a horrible presumption, I know,
but not, at least,
out of pity
–which would be as stupid as I can imagine being–
but because I long
to read those scars like Braille
and hear the secrets they tell
when your mouth was sealed
to keep you from speaking.
The dwarves thought
a sliver of steel
and a length of thread
would keep you silent.
Such folly.
They were wrong.
They call you ‘god of lies’,
and yes,
you do lie,
but in those wordless marks
are such truths
as they could never comprehend.
All Their Voices 