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Conrad Hilberry

Tongue

He did not mean to test the cold
or his own daring. He did it idly,
not thinking, as he might suck
a little solace from his thumb.

Alone at recess, watching three boys
wrestle in the snow, he touched
his tongue to the cyclone fence
and it froze. The cold clanged shut.

With his fingers, he pulled at the tongue
as if it were a leech, sucking
the blood of his leg. Butt he ice held.
In panic, he tore away his mistake,

tore loose his tongue, leaving skin
like patches of rust on the metal.
What could he do with the torn and swollen
tongue, with shame that tasted like blood?

In school, he hid his mouth behind
his hands. He swallowed. He swallowed.