Underneath

Tell the hand that holds the pen
not to listen to the voice that shuts you up
shut up shut up shut up
this feather sensitivity this desire to be comfortable
give it up, shut it down, make do
and pretend to be fine.

Tell the hand that holds the pen
not to believe it not to pretend, not ever
keep looking for the source
this other voice the quiet one
underneath the earthquake
the one that won't stop
even when you won't listen
that inhabits a quivering body,
knows the light, has stolen all it knows
from the source -
toes, knees, hips, ribs
awkwardly
a body knowing itself
by its discomforts
between the shoulder blades
in the throat,
this burning along the collarbone.