SOUND

The kitchen, the hearth, the space, is unlit

weak light, nothing stirring.

She is as still, as a breathing creature, can be

sound… is for the world, chasing beyond itself

where girls like her, hold tight to bus rails, wind messing their hair

where children cling to parents, shy in perpetual game

where men stoop to kiss women, full cheeks upturned

music and the chink of movement, gypsy motion

color and the rustle of long skirts, like painted fans

a sky as blue as country girl’s eyes

the haggle of time

a red river, carved by motion

she wore those days, like a red dress, loose limbed and free

unknowing yet, bestial crush of illness

jeering like envious stranger, swallowing thin air.

She is as still as a breathing creature can be

sound, is for the world, chasing beyond itself.

[submitted on 8/11/2020]