The Tongue Speaks Through its Memories 

There’s no hair on the tongue because there is no tongue
it’s been ripped out
as from the oxen that stock the slaughterhouses
and carry dust in their armpits

But the tongue speaks through its memories
it speaks the language of the dead
to whom we owe so much
it makes itself understood by the spoonful
like the trees that move their feet
to say present

The tongue speaks even if it fills with ants
even if it rots and is no longer the same
it keeps singing or barking or moving aside
so that the screams of silence can be heard louder