Backbiting

Listen again to the grabbing
recordings that claw
at the dry air around my throat—
My teeth are south of my brain,
called the Cliffs of Manhattan
on the maps,
and in the folded valleys
of my mind the words fit
ups and downs, gray like concrete.
But they fall out on the cliffs
and bleed with "ch-ch-changes",
"shadows" of "children"
all tangled up in love.
The waves are spazzing out
against my molars
and I force myself to read
because I wrote with my name,
R-A-C-AYCH-E-L,
and I won't cry in public.
I believed in a power that,
when read aloud,
could give life
to the barren, curly-cue locks
of Wendys without their Peters,
but my hair goes straight
when the other girls scream
at the rain.
Acidic, rotten,
sweet and gagging me.
Captured again on my own.