The Underside

I yawned and caught sight

of the underside—pale, white,

the part that never sees day,

the part I hide away

in the dark of my mouth.

The veins there, south

like roads I'd never known

ran beneath, had grown

like a map of something

I was never told anything

about, never examined,

never demanded

to see until this moment.

Pale. Almost translucent. Moment

by moment, the copper taste

bloomed when I faced

what I was made of

inside. Above

and below and between

the surface, unseen,

ran this landscape,

this geography I'd escaped

knowing about my own self.

I closed my mouth. The wealth

of knowledge faded,

the veins cascaded

back into the dark.

But now I bear this mark,

this knowledge I can't unsee,

this map living in me,

these roads I'll carry

in the dark where I tarry,

speaking words over

these veins that hover

beneath every breath I take.