C. Heyne

 
Incomcordable

I’m a poet, which is to say which is to say
often. To search for new language in old suits
I seek precise eyesight, I scream with revelation
I’m a poet which is to say I scream to say
nothing. I scream for sheer sound. To
mimic the trees that fall, to make a noise
unabashed and unrecognized. I’m a poet
which is to be unabashed and unrecognized.
I am a poet which is to look for closure
and rarely find it, even in language. To patch
words, Incompletus: Latin, meaning “incomplete,”
Cordis: Latin, meaning “heart,” and filing
incomcordable away. The way a hedgehog,
before hibernating, might mistake a piece
of plastic for a bug. To attempt consumption
and realize only later how it sits in the throat.

 
On Surviving

This is about me. I tell the class of thirty—a workshop on writing post-sexual assault—I am the speaker of the poem. They The Speaker this, Our Speaker that. I am them, I say. Nobody speaks up. Without looking, the instructor mutters shouldn’t you finish counting your teeth? The class shuffles into their bags, having forgotten the assignment, one by one, yanking the remaining teeth from their mouths. A young boy in the back applauds, stands up on his desk, cranes his fingers over his head, and twirls like a spun spinning top. He must think he’s a ballerina. He must think it’s a celebration.