Bitch My Tongue

Tongue, bitch my tongue,

how I despise you

when you won’t stand up, won’t say

the worst, can’t say it—

how the cities swarm,

whole continents of pain still fester,

little children broken into bits,

with old men strung in ribbons

on the barbs of fences by a stinking ditch.

I hate it when you won’t say

souls are churning side by side

and hell seems air-conditioned

when compared to those hot rooms.

Can’t say it, what goes on,

what sad unspeakable and sweaty

corridors are walked now

but without you, bitch my tongue

rising to clarify, denounce, deride.

Sometimes I want a decent butcher.

I would cut you out,

then wrap you in the filthy papers,

chuck you in the street

where dogs can have their fill of you.

Even mere silence wouldn’t hurt as much,

would seem respectable

compared to what I’m forced to carry

in this big and silent mouth of mine.