CONFESSION
Speak, Grendel, speak.
Though my tongue has been cut out,
my native language beyond recall?
Its words, like the blows of a knout
in the hands of an expert sadist,
have left no outward mark;
no least bruise of palimpsest
on these old parchments,
that I wear like skins,
my costume for the auto-da-fe.
Speak, Grendel, speak.
My heart is full of owls;
my mother cached them there,
a chest full of knickknacks, paddywack,
she bequeathed to unsuspecting posterity.
My back is full of leather straps;
my father laid them on, hope he’s glad
he made the proud flesh so strong.
I am a monster. Wolves run in circles,
and bite themselves when I howl.
I gnash down the marrow
of long bones a song too large
for narrow ears.
Speak, Grendel, speak.
Who?
