Lacking (I Don’t Know What I Don’t Know)

I do not know the history

Buried in the bog of my father’s head.

He offers one peaty corpse

And I must don my boots

And kick loose the petrified secrets

He keeps stashed in soil.

 

I do not know the stories

Of the imps that bounce in blades.

Their truths are told in whispers

Older than the nation but not the dirt.

Their lips shape sounds

Never meant for my ears.

 

I do not know the words

Built for the stones under my feet.

The cliffs were carved by tongues

More gifted, while mine sits stagnant,

Cursed; my unholy syllables

Indelicate, powdering gravel.