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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
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