"Unsaid "
There are splinters in my palms.
I run my hands along the dried wood
as the seasons slide silently one into the other.
I have lost my voice, given it up
to the wind on the wide plain.
There is nothing worth the words-
not the moon, its gaping face at my shoulder,
not the remembrance of lanterns
strung from branch to branch,
not even the truth of my children's eyes.
I have no breath to push
the lies from my lips,
no tongue to form them.
Adders and briars coil in my mouth,
dangerous and unspoken.
When winter comes the second time,
I will kindle the fence with a sheaf of poems,
listen to snow and ashes fall
as the fire hisses my name.
© 2005 Dale McLain
|
|
