By Sarah Koros

Shell of a human, it is the grim case.

Hell, can it be named with an outline so faint?

Empty fingerprints, it pressed against my lips

Aching with request, though read more like insist.

. . .

Moses too forgot, just as shapes and shadows cannot define it.

Even in regret I cannot stop, no it put my tongue on it.

“Nose dive,” the pigeon sang, “Just scream it.”

“Do not hesitate, finger the letters that describe it.”

Eager, sometimes I shed this skin like blood, but it is never enough to seal it.

Let them know your real name, that one word, and I will damn it.

. . .

I could name you, in truth, but that power within my mouth wanes

As if I alone could call each blade of grass.

No, it must name it. Until then, it does not deserve even this.