a ghost story

when i reach the mouth of the river/ the ghosts are already there/ mouths brimming with stones./ i harvested the ginseng/ like the books instructed/ pressed the golden root into/ the chicken whose neck i snapped/ and whose organs i pulled/ hot and black/ from the lattice of its ribs./ i was told this/ was enough of a sacrifice for the ancestors/ to wake, heavy and milky-eyed/ from their tombstones./ when they reach me, luminous and silent above/ my figure praying in the wet grass/ they see that my tongue is bruised/ the frenum cracked with sores and veins/ strained from inhabiting two minds/ in one breath./ they circle the chicken/ watch as smoke curls from/ the emptied cavity of its chest./ i beat my own heart/ an overused gesture/ of loneliness./ they pull out the rocks hidden beneath the river/ and hand them to me./ you could, they say/ break your

tongue with these stones/ bleed out bad blood, wash/ the tender flesh in this river thick/ with story. the water swells under/ my bare feet. i trace fingertips along/ the bruised muscle/ each sore a city/ i have loved./ if i take these stones/ this river will yield/ a neutered tongue washed clean/ of a past that has never learned/ to slacken its arms./ but what good is a painless tongue/ that is not mine.