Not Speak


My grandmother
to whom I could not speak
the life of me
the quietly eating candy
mountains her small eyes
closed her mystery
now asks to be
considered grief

Whom I could not ask
tired as she was, her head
held up to see some heavy
invisible to me, strong
as I was dumb Whom I saw
straining could not see
dying With others she
prepared her way

of whom I could not ask
choking in a blanket
as of snow on Christmas
over evergreens the
endless life gasping
through painful seasons
but I believe I heard
her long ago forgiving me

already for today
for the wintry blankness
of my head the dull
abandoned fireplace of
my heart in a house
burned down That she would
answer, to whom I would
not speak

death is silver
for good people
and we see ourselves
distorted Looks like
we're pleading as our
raised hands twist
upon the contours
of our own harsh walls


March 25, 2002