Fossil
Around my neck
I feel the caul on hands
Many hands
Rotten and converted
Warm, sticky
They are ‘Suspicious'
Choking
It is my turtle neck
Made of oil cells
Of my ancestors
Turned into fossil
By time, pressure
During the ages
They choke me
They force me
I ask: 'When? '
And I know the rest...they are timeless...did they die...will I die...I'll fossil...a sigh; and laugh...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem