Felt Sound
The sounds of the words were felt sounds that
etched angry pictures
on the back of my eyes as I shut ‘em tight,
As fear leaked in the shreds of an opened heart.
When the wounds healed,
they left in the fear;
I was too young to remember the words,
only the violent contortion of the face
whose curled lips they fell through.
And sometimes, if air-mailed from another room,
I still saw the face.
And there it stayed.