The Tongue

Jeremiah Prenn

Granted, I washed myself
In a scent too new to have reference.
Tic-tac, and all explodes slowly,
dimly as if it had no occupation or destination,
but that is, I might say, a lie.

Cold water down the back
is easy to hide, a plain sentence spoken
with confidence not so easy because
well, you see,
now that my hand is cut along its stigmata,
and those pieces stuck on blades of grass,
taped against the wind with yellow,
I am choosing to withhold the rest of me,
including the tongue.

Monday I had two beings grow inside me,
both dominating the other.
If that’s it, then both’ll drown,
within a week, I might say,
crushed by enlarging bumps.

This map is a math of history,
how we strangled one of two beings inside of us,
letting the other soak like a bag of tea,
prating.

Jeremiah Prenn lives in Boise, Idaho, and has been published in Wingless Dreamer, The Closed Eye Open, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Song Between Our Stars, and Sad Girls Club. His background in writing is simple: he’s been writing every single day for a long, long time. He’s interested in fiction and poetry that is precise and impactful.