Catching the Scream

I stood outside the world 
to learn the truth, 
it’s a stacked deck
and for every good father
there are three like Lot
making comfort women 
of their daughters.
 
When my Lot came
it wiped me away, 
in my place a blank statue 
and the cloth of me 
somewhere else. 
 
Atop this frozen figure
- the birds of my voice 
scattered into oblivion -
an empty cage. 
A wire mouth rusted shut. 
 
I can’t speak it 
but I wrap around the pen
and write. With my words 
I’ll make a fist. 
In childhood diaries 
between the blue pansies 
and stickers, abbreviated
in notebooks, outlined in emails,
I see the shape of it forming.
 
I’m not there yet but soon
I’ll write my body back
to catch those birds
and then you’ll hear 
my childhood screams.