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Call it braille. These scars. This ferociously

opened flesh. You say that you know something


about holy texts, at least one, maybe,

that bad translation that you keep calling


Word. Yo. You’ve yet to touch this. If you can’t

touch you can’t read and my secrets won’t be


handed down to you. The last who could chant

every line aloud is gone. Her dead sea


called. She answered. This is one text that knows

it won’t be rebound, recovered. Some verse


and code and syllabary are better

lost. “Show me,” you said; but I keep my clothes


on. You can’t read me, call these words a curse,

or trace my broken spine with one finger.