The first page

I speak best through my fingers
with each stroke of my pen
I find a louder voice on paper.
I am in pieces on stage,
billions of words skipping inside my brain.

My voice isn't strong enough to hold their gravity.
I get twisted tongues when I try to verbalize those letters
poetry can speak in volumes when its made real
seen along the walls of Jalisco, Mexico
in Oakland,
San Francisco
they are embedded in braille behind my eyelids
seeing words everywhere,
shouting in their silence.

A bed of 26 letters quaking in my throat,
feet pacing,
Tonight my pen cannot give me a voice.
muted whispers fall to my toes,
words heavy enough only for paper.

That poetry is hidden in the creases of my chicana curves
I can't mumble a sound,
my body temperature rising
as the alphabet bleeds at my hairline,
dripping with anticipation,
those words arrive only for the pages.

I stand alone, tongue tied down
I can see every face in the crowd
each letter stuck on the roof of my mouth
every syllable breaking out from my throat
cannot be understood,
all 26 lost between heaven and earth.

So many words that want attention;
want to be read,
but cannot be spoken,
that literature is engraved in stone
my mouth is glued shut
and so then I run.