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The Privilege of Silence
No threats. No the teaser
this time. Finally there is a random God.
And all the filthy laundry we’ve hung out to dry,
all the fingers we’ve grown used to pointing,
sneer, backbite, everything that worked
yesterday, nothing a little
breeze won’t knock down.
Even wisdom, the pure heart, the woman
who for six days among impatient nurses
choked on water, who knew a full
life when she saw one, who never asked of anybody,
begged for air, was made
to beg for something
she knew she was en route to.
Only the living take things for granted.
The dead don’t leave; some part of us
is missing. And we sense
the echo, the wind in our
veins, faces like thin
curtains that let in the light
and let loose our shadows.
Even asleep, in the ancient dance,
we are turning away.
Turning toward the ruckus
of jacarandas. A face in the crowd
that offers itself like early morning,
unknowingly, as we are drawn to it.
More strangely than that.
--
That was in an old American Poetry Review that had fallen behind the bookcase.
All Good Things - Jobe