mid[]roll

I attempt to learn a new language for you,
but it's easy. I've been translating since I was small:
what that eyebrow raise means, the tilt of her head
when she asked for a favor.

You are me, in a way. The accidental cult that caused you
to end your own life and be reborn.
But I witnessed when you realized you existed.
I formed your tongue in my body. It's so cool
or groovy or lit. It's a vibe.

Your hands are my hands. It's the daisy chain that links us
to my mom and hers; at the end of the loop is
the zircon stone from Acasta Gneiss.
The language scratched into it comes from the back of my throat.
The language scratched into it was dug with pitchforks, molars,
triangles, tattoo needles. I can't read most of it
because there's a film across my eyes.

When I try to wipe it away, it's bad, which means it's good which
means it's sick which means it's fresh which
means nothing, eventually.