Dead Voice.
by Victoria Scott
Your dead voice on the telephone
almost sparks, then you remember
the snares you set.
Under what iron layers do you
lie concealed?
Brain white washed clean before
looking for death in the jungle?
Practising reptilian silence for survival
the lizard art has cost
cold blood beating cold hearts
warmth penetrating only surface.
Still, silent shrieking bloodies your whites,
gracefilled hands freeze to rigid shattered claws
while throbbing tentacles etch skin.
Constricting bands rupture
what will that severing bring?
