the day an airplane crashed,
the air became heavy
with the aura of mouths
sore with grieving songs.
I was taught to plead with the fire in my broken tongue
as would an owl, tired of nocturne.
the confession room is a block away
from freedom park, where we go to celebrate everyone
that died in flight,
everyone who had a name
similar to ours.
I felt all our dead reincarnated in me today,
my body is now soundproof; I do not hear the songs that slip out of my mouth.