We are such a people of inexhaustible silences. We can mistake the absence of speech for tenderness because we have to give someone the benefit of the doubt. What is second nature but to put pieces of any wreckage into brown envelopes, file them away with others in a drawer, then blink afterward at the brilliance of sunset over the water? After the storm passes, the colors are even more vibrant and unreal. They don't want to be contained. Some stones are just stones; others are fawn or speckled green, banded yellow, gashed with tourmaline. Some are crystals that tremor to the frequency of every beggared expectation. For instance, I wanted one roof over all our heads; I wanted to not turn into my histories of being forgotten or left behind. We don't speak of love or its other aliases. This is real, though— this space vibrating with the knowledge that it could be filled.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.