two-way mirror

i took a knife to my tongue
& split it down the middle.
let one side turn into a snake.
i whispered, "go somewhere to tell the truth."
it is hard to speak with half a tongue.
who is watching & who is being watched.
to explain my selfhood is to ask,
"do you have a sock puppet theater?"
i make my hand talk for me
& it says, "keep your head under the veil."
when i first learned the term "fawn response"
i though of the forest where i would go
to whittle limbs off myself.
i would tell a boy without eyes,
"take this" & "take this." he called me,
"farmer's market." used my ribs as fresh moons.
have you ever tried to say what you mean
& felt the words each fall as rats?
scurrying away, i plead with them,
"i need you." they are too hungry. 
they do not need me. i watch myself
through the two-way mirror. she is 
trying anything she can to remove
what's left of her tongue. thinks of
the silent monks & wonders if
all their words are flowing into the ground water.
the well where i sometimes go
to find a ready supply of spiders
to pray to. what would you do 
if no one at all was watching? i think 
i would scream & then i would turn
into a lady bug & eat a hole through
the walls of my childhood home.
then, finally, return to the snake.
ask her, "what have you wanted to say?" 
kneeling down & putting my hear
to her mouth, waiting for a homily.
instead, she will bite as if to remind me,
"if it is too late. it is not the truth."