By Kamaria Muntu

The mutterings were just that, they drizzled.
Said she to the Pharaoh of muse;
yonder are my offerings un-burnt.
My reeds un-played, my lips un-felt.
Phrasing like a knife in a diamond, bent and dullish
crawled out an unbolted cavity in the wall.

Who speaks then, like an empty funnel of castrated air
… whose reeds have flat-lined unsung?

No news from the ostrich, panther, lizard, or white turtle;
just groans of idolatry for eating, napping, salivating …
in that gratuitous jungle where the mind rests.