Celia
on the microphone
you tell everyone your pain
hoping the truth
will set you down and keep you
well footed on the planet

Celia
put that thing back on its stand
and breathe a bit
that immense truth of yours is a mountain
and a mountain could care less
about the intonation
you use
when you describe it

Celia
we can hear it
every hair in your lungs
is a whip driving you
to let it out
but that truth you’ve just got to shout
is just another exhalation
waste pushing itself back to be reborn
once you’ve finished your say

Celia
your words are fingers
and you’re face down
on a massage table
staring into the floor
through a comfortable hole
feeling what they’ve got to tell you
but truth is
those words you’re feeling
will stop in a short time and
someone’s going to demand you pay up

Celia
put away the key
and stop tugging on the shut door
that holds back everything you’ve got inside
the truth is
blood’s thicker than a sentence
dancing tongues step soft and wet where they step
and nothing you have to say
will last longer than it needs to

Celia
truth is no God
poetry no savior
while your voice is a pretty thing
a potent thing for as long as it holds up
you’ve got those whips inside you lying about the cure
you’ve got those whips inside you telling you speech is as good as a leech
what you bleed pools in a cup
and it’s no good once it’s gone cold

Celia
you know what’s true?
your truth is bigger than any poem
your truth demands utterance because that’s the first step
but the microphone only looks like an incense burner
the stand only seems a shadow of the True Cross
your truth spoken is not your chains broken
come down off the stage
give a moment to silence
let the poem be and stop imagining you’re free
just because the whips have slowed
and the cracks have temporarily stopped
when the words are done
you’ve only just begun