Roy Herndon Smith
The question is what
words make on the chopping block
of still nothingness,
articulations,
stir-fry of sliced-up, tossed-in-
a-wok jumbles of
mumbles and clear-cuts;
the forests gone to deserts,
butterflies fall like
leaves crumbling to dust;
to dust the dish with a dash
of coriander,
cumin, turmeric,
and a bit of cayenne; when
the jolt of joy hits,
suffering tumbles
after; we are what we eat,
we are what we speak.
dust 