|Apr/May 2007 Poetry|
This kind of thing cannot be spoken about.
It has to be wrapped up in layers of warm banana
leaves, tucked under the arm and slipped in
under cover of smoke and fire.
Then it could be left in front of the lost mirror,
with the coins and keys and the patches
of talcum spilled yesterday when the heat rose and absolutely
nothing would work, not the new air conditioner,
not the secret troves of coolness stashed
between stacks of cotton sheets kept washed
just in case. Or it can be thrown
into the grass left uncut since
that day, grass grown so tall now that anything
can hide or be hidden in it and not a shadow
will spill, not a wave will show, not a scream will tell
the story of this. Of how the mud trembles underfoot
as if yellow eyes can see everything and clawed
feet can run.
But if there is a rustle of anger and a light wind rises,
it will spread. Color the mud red. Spread
like madness, oh it will.