have we been birds? by tamara jobe

This, a pain when we touch,
when we crush between our
sticky fingers all that we've
done : it smells of a fruit
no one has a name for.

We have no name for.

       In the mornings we carry the succor
       in the backs of our mouths, safe for later.

We talk to the sky in made-up tongues.

In made-up tongues we rabble and gobble
and hunt each other for the right words:
to glut, to skewer, to fuck. We know the names
we call each other but no one else does.
The pulp between us: silken, seeded,
suited. We warble together to hear
our choked songs when we forget
​how to speak.

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Tamara Jobe lives somewhere in the South, tending horses and writing poems. She also edits Figroot Press.