i memorize the names,
every syllable a brick in my mouth;
my tongue pressed to the roof like a warning,
like a promise
like a way to be noticed
by someone who will never see me

the laminated card folds under my fingers, 
creases at the corners
thumb rubs them smooth
so smooth
so clean
so it might forgive me

i speak;
the microphone clicks;
you nod
thank me for remembering
say respect
say acknowledgment
say beginning
say nothing that touches the ground
i kneel
i do not breathe

this is the offering—
not land
not repair
but sound
the scrape of my voice across your floor
the way it bends under fluorescent lights
the way it waits
for permission to stop

i learn to measure myself
against the silence
that follows;
the pause that tastes like a finger pressed to a puncture wound;
the ritual that wants me smaller,
flatter,
quiet,
polished

i do not ask
what it costs
what it changes
what it might break inside me

 i carry the words like metal
hot metal
hot enough to mark me
hot enough to make me tremble
and still i repeat
still i kneel
still i fold
still i hope my mouth
can be useful enough

 sometimes i imagine the land
breathing,
its own patience,
its own memory,
and me,
small and loud
inside it,
touching nothing,
leaving nothing,
asking for nothing

 i am very good
at being legible,
at being invisible,
at being what you require,
what the building requires,
what the fluorescent light requires

 i want the syllables to shatter,
to lick the walls,
to make noise,
to make weight,
to prove that i exist
even in obedience

 this is not forgiveness,
not mercy,
not love,
this is maintenance,
this is staying,
this is the shape you wanted,
the shape i can hold,
without moving,
without collapsing,
without being anything else

 and in the end
when the microphone clicks off
and the room exhales,
and the fluorescent lights hum
i fold the syllables back into my jean pocket,
i fold myself into the floor,
and i am still here.
still here in the territory.