House of Language

Have I been left without my tongue,
the only possession that I still have left?
Everything is and isn’t in a name,
I say in the nameless tongue
with which I speak to myself
and all things around. Does my tongue,
cut in two by the sharp blade of a knife,
wiggle like a snake’s? Aren’t gentle words whispered
even by snakes entwined in a dead knot?
And their offspring, fruit of a poisonous love,
that expose their beautiful naked forms
to the sun all day long? Should I learn to speak anew,
or forever fall silent
and only gaze at you endlessly,
my soul, and caress you?