by Alice Dark
Saw your lips, a double feature: forbidden half-moons
meet in my name, teeth glisten between them.
In the back row of church
the pastor screams, marching
catholic down the aisle. He’s
forgotten you, but remembered
me. It’s easy to do: I don’t require
a tongue to speak, nor the holy
spirit to call. Clack your teeth,
and I am there. Snap your fingers,
and I erupt. Writhing from your fire eyes,
I rise, still unspoken. But
by you, I am known: Only you know
my electric words of creation.