Not spoken
A rehearsal and a what if,
A talking back to your mother
Things you’d say
Running off
And won’t be forgot
But embellished,
Mrs. Havisham’s house
Was your childhood home
(There must have been a cake
With spiders, windows
Never opened)
All this under your tongue
Which insists
Like a cat prowling
Through grass
Page after page
There is a kind of future.
