N A T A S H A S A J É
How this rhythm bubbles
like a hidden spring, and echoes
the one mad tongue
the body knows by heart and speaks
as a penitent in solitary, lucid
in a cell not of its own making.
How these leaves of blood and tissue fall
from the womb—swollen as a night
of dreaming—into autumn.
© crossconnect, inc 1995-2003
published in association with the
university of pennsylvania's
kelly writers house