Silent Grounds

I pressed my tongue against the broken rim,
and let the sour taste of leaving in.
I learned to bow where knives were being thrown,
and hold my chest out like an empty home.

You turned your face the way a branch will snap,
pretending it was thunder made it crack.
You wore my patience like a borrowed skin,
then shed it once the crowd stopped looking in.

Still I would kneel and wipe the gravel clean,
still tie your busted laces in between.
Still hold the match that burned the roof I built,
still drink the rain that tasted most like guilt.

I was the plate you smashed to hear the sound,
the nail you bent to keep the picture down.
I was the shirt you used to stop your bleed,
the rope you pulled on only when in need.

I stayed the floor that cracked beneath your spit,
the name you said when you could not commit.
I stayed the prayer stuck between your teeth,
the coin you dropped but kicked into the street.

And if you curse me with your dying breath,
I’ll serve you still beyond the gates of death;
I’ll take the rag and wring the water dry,
And cleanse the wounds you never let me tie.

I swear, I would have drowned in dust,
just to be hands that you could choose to trust.