There is no word in English for the circle
left on a table from a cold glass,
or for the difference in flavor
between fresh and dried fruit. There’s no precise
way to say I pushed my thumbs through the eyes
of the old living except to say all that, and then
it barely seems a miracle anymore,
a lamp burned for eight days or
then the prophet split the moon, why bother? We speak
of the divine with the panicked
futility of a barn swallow
tossing her eggs out the nest
to spare them a crow—theory proves
useless, confusion
the only true coin of the realm.
The stories stay the same:
this new drug tames
that old one, fat hardens
in a bowl. Three boys
stand naked in a shallow pond
whispering nervously, counting
each other’s bones. Who would
want to name any of this? We are wired
to feel comfort at human
voice, and we know nothing
can conquer comfort. Still, the shape
of a bad name is like a toothpick
swallowed—even if you survive,
the splinters will stay
long enough for you to swear off toothpicks forever.
Some have managed it, abandoned language
entirely, the bravest among them
not opening their mouths
for decades at a time. They know
what the saints knew: silence
to a tongue is different than silence
to a soul—the difference
is pain or the difference
is light, but either way there is a difference
and it matters, though here in the belly of the present
the difference is shrinking right
in front of us like an oversalted plum, like a sullen
crow disappearing into the horizon.