I Speak in Tongues Now 

 
Crow comes to steal my dream
He breathes a rank stew

of artemesia and amanita,
of scars he has eaten from

my eyes, my hands.
The wave breaks hard,

cuts me apart,
stirs me into his stew. 

I won’t be able
to piece myself back

without more
feather-shaped scars

whose breath will betray
the new shape of my tongue

striking new words from
unfamiliar molds, if they

can be called words.
I speak in tongues now,

awake as I am

and still groggy.