Not Dead Yet

NOT DEAD YET

He hit himself tonight—

and hard—as if he might 

pry loose the poem 

plaqued around his gums. 

Is he aware it comes

from deeper down, 

from further in, (the hunger

or the poem, that is?) Either

way he must articulate 

the bubble in his chest

before he burst—at best—

at worst become convinced

that since he’ll never say it 

right then logic indicates 

there is, as such, no word

worth fighting for.

This is the final death,

The fingerprints

now rising on his skin

are his salvation.