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THE CONFESSIONAL SCHOOL

I should have written
The Confession of Body Parts
when I was younger;
how saline content of saliva
contented me
lashing on the shore of any
lips and tongue;
I should have
counted earlier the body's various
slicknesses;
how sweat lubricates
and bodies at rest
tend to remain in motion
until equilibrium is achieved.

The Confessional School of Poetry
had need of my fluids
but I was silent,
a stilled voice among the cacti,
a suburban slough drained me.
I was glue beneath abrasive particles
on sandpaper.
It was a drought of a time.
And now my voice pebbles in a dry stream
that rain is never unnecessary
and my tongue probes gaps in teeth
breath whistling dryly past
while words
drip or drool across this page.

      — Sharon Kourous