Close yours eyes
And stroke the vacant breath in which you are planted
And enfold both fists ‘round the first letters [you] find.
Gnaw into your palm, they will,
Grinding your callused flesh between points of A and curves of U
Beads of violet blood drawn by the biting words
So carelessly combined.

Perhaps your fingers [will] rain purple gore
And assail the square in which you stand
At its heart,
Square scarred by the lavender trailing down the tilt of the surface
Under steadfast feet.

Perhaps purple storm will pool ‘tween your toes
And soak words that once sprang with vigor
From the tip of your thumb.
And with a god’s prayer hidden ‘tween the last two letters
Let its jagged edge dissolve into lavender silence
And let it [never] again strike the crumbling cheek of a woman.

Perhaps, with every liquefied word,

With every empty prayer from a soundless god,

The violet will rise to encircle your motionless calf.

Let it rise, my love, let it rise.
To the hip with quivering disbelief
To the palm slick with the residue of your words
To the lip that [know]s not the power of its speech

It is you
Your words will silence.