Letters to My Children

"There are no weapons here but words" --Pablo Neruda

This is not a bedtime story
about the man who stuttered
as a child. He finally learned
to sing, let the meaning flow

past his lips and tongue like water.
When I speak, I vomit swords, slit
the insides of my own throat. I swallow,
taste the tang of salt and iron.

At night, I forge my right hand
into an instrument of peace, 
pick up this pen. Dried blood 
saturates a white sheet.