Fusing Silence

In the province no one visits, she’s still
waiting to be born. I can
almost feel her breath
brushing by me like a dark wish

hear the lullabies
burrowed deep in time when I lay
under stars small fires, waiting

under sun’s spiral, waiting
under vacant wash of sky
beyond barriers of sight, waiting.

If I empty my head of names
If I empty my pocket of coins
If I empty my shoes
will I feel the imprint of a palm
or hear a voice that fuses silence?

In thought’s last extravagance
we reach toward each other
intent and unaware, and I imagine
fears that shape her nights
until the world leaps back to brightness.

Yet, she never quite appears
even in the down drop of sleep
and the moment is never the moment
where grace begins.


In the dream she’s above me
leaning into the pond.
From the still, clear water
I stare up mouthing her words.

As I drift on the current
and beyond, she follows
sinking a stone through me
then extends her hand.
We exchange places.

Water covers her eyes, her mouth.
I inhale her and I am cold.
Peering into the blue façade
I shield my eyes.
One reflection kisses, the other kills.

She sinks through amber depths
into green awareness and then
rises to the surface
singing of a more transparent time.

Night rises like dark wine.
Under the moon’s bald eye,
we float together, the shadow
of one lying darkly on the other.

Ruth Daigon | Mudlark No. 25
Contents | The Sweet Swindle of Spring