by John Sibley Williams
My
son has not yet found a reason to love
or
hate the silence following us around
the
house. All he knows: something
palpable
is missing, not yet profound, not
yet
painting nightmares over his sleep,
just
a steady lack of arms where arms
should
be. The hundred nightingales
trapped
in my chest are chattering all at
once.
I don’t know which to speak from,
if
any voice is true, & if I’d recognize
it.
My face tries to shift confidently
among
the faces he expects to see over
his
cradle at night. I press his ear to the
floorboards’
groans & say this is the house
settling beneath
us. I
say memory is simply
an attempt to
record what matters. Then
I
say
nothing really matters anymore. &
the
birds
hush. & the house. & he is finding
his
reason; I hope it’s love, & I hate that I
have
loved so much.
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