Oral Myology, Or How to Know When It’s Over
Darlene Anita Scott

I have not multiplied my words when speaking.
The 42 Negative Confessions, Book of Ma’at

How It crowds space, can be music;
too much: cacophony. Erodes enamel
diluting to anemia all intentions.

How it offers words when we want ears,
to scream, invading tongue. To swallow it
or mud. As apology with intestines empty

of anything like sorry; distended malnourished
belly tattletaling the empty offering. Have you
ever offered your tongue as alms like the blue

of sky everlasting yet knowing elsewhere
it’s pink-purple or grey or black as bile,
necessarily rancid to digest what’s left after the chew.


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