by Michael John C. Otanes (Poetry)

We are careful: when his eyes meet
mine in the crowd we would put walls
between us to stop the fire. It is only
in the darkness where our bent
bodies meet. There, without exchanging
words, we would make a ritual only
we can understand: I would sit on
the bed and gaze up at his eyes;
then he would spit nectar inside
my mouth, and then a cobweb in my
lips so they are shut.
Language dies
when it is not used, but it is in
silence that we preserve ours. We do
not speak our new jargons and
slangs outside: we fasten them
atop our tongues so securely, afraid
that, should they be blurted
out of the caves by any accidents,
graves will be born.