" Remembrance of Silence "
I am positive I will misquote a deaf friend by writing
this, the same as I'll reassemble Einstein by saying
we can never declare abstinence from light, never
transcend the velocity of its particulars ö
we will never know the meaning of true silence.
At a relevant point in time everything we love
becomes grounded in sound; even in death, nerve
endings become believers in resurrection, in the echoed
cadence of blood marching within oppressed veins.
Life is never that forgiving.
Stars will implode in less time than it takes us to answer
rhetorical questions unhinged from cluttered tongues.
"Do you love me?" takes on the din of "Do you want me?"
The context becomes lost between the dream and the awakening.
Eventually we fall back on remembrance and how it felt
groping for wind inside the womb, how the agenda centered a
round what a hum would look like outside the skin.
We remember it as ghost chant through walls: the sweep
of palm against belly, the resistance of breath through
pores upon hearing the first lullaby rock light to sleep.
Yet for all this ventless effort, we fear conformity
to solitude. We whistle a song to turn back its onset,
file "love" under "lust" in the process, confuse "sacrifice"
with "redemption." Everything else we swat at with brooms
as we would a bee trapped in some dusty closet of the brain.
Always, we'll tilt our heads searching for the next buzz,
ponder how many fingers it takes to tune false ribs,
consider how mouths can hold more consonants than teeth.
© 2002 Ian Marlowe (DarkScribe)
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