hooked on phonics.

at the end i'll be called to account
for every word i have re-molded
on the press of my tongue.

the animal who chases the roadrunner
and calls to your dogs in the sound
of a nightbird:
kai-oot.

the past perfect of carrying women
off by their hair or heaving yourself out
of bed in the morning was the word
for poppy dust and needling elbows.

(dragged is for queens. this word was drug.)

for the retractable r's in
feb-you-ary
lie-barry, i learned to think
like a brewery, like rarity -
february, library.

saints are piercing their lips here
to re-lisp their way through the gates

the parabled way into heaven:
the narrow eye of a needle,
a holy breath through the gap
in your teeth.