a man is brought to a house 
after interrogation 
before sunrise near the spring 
called Fountain of Tears 
there will be an unmarked 
grave — in his earth 
olive trees are alive though he is 
not
this blue shadow and thin-
needled pines see everything  
he cannot and later wind 
later cicadas 
in this perfume of heat 
and thistles that he does not 
hear 
if poetry were a religion its 
consolation 
would hurt us further, a river 
would hurt us 
bring us to trembling like 
this man 
what ache of listening will be 
our river of lilies — 
their open mouths

Meredith Stricker | Dear Silence >>
Contents | Mudlark No. 54  (2014)