Silence at Dawn

Photo by Juan Davila via Unsplash


Silence at Dawn harpur palate


The lake wasn’t deep. We pushed the boat out
and watched it take on water.  You  drank and
drank  and  drank.    The  taste,  you  said,  an
afterthought,  a bruise.  I wish you had let me
drink,  too.

Later,  the upended flask.  The snake current.
The   tear  climbing   back  into  its  socket.   I
should have been there. Like an eye that  saw
and a hand  that  held.  Like  driftwood.  Like
hope.  Not stuck  in the after.  Not  where the
notes  shattered  air.  Not  with  that  muffled
song,  trapped inside a scream.  The one that
sings me,  still.

These  dreams I have.  You,  growing upward
from  the  mud  and  I,  one with it.  A swamp
creature.  My  swamp  hands  clutching  your
ankles.  My  swamp mouth latching on yours.

There was  darkness  in both of us,  but  mine
was  lighter.  I see that  now.  You carried  the
sky.  I merely watched you do it.

And now,  this  morning.  A distinct  shade of
blue  that  only  exists  in  memory.   And  the
voice.  Do you  hear it?  Forget  who  you  are
and come  over,  it says.  Forget  you’ve  been
lost to each other and forget what you’ve lost.
The world  is so new, anything could happen.
Even you.


First published in Harpur Palate, Volume 19, no. 1, Fall 2019

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