Where is the lost and found
for voices? The cure for tangled
tongues? Courage for the defeated?
Inspired faith for the shrinking away?
Is there a vision of ourselves that
does not sing? A music that
does not rise and fall
and rise again? A longing that
does not broadcast truth?
Silence, freely chosen,
makes way for hearing
others speak, makes way for
the rustle of the world,
makes wavelengths of
skin and space around, this
silence chosen for its fullness,
but silence self-inflicted
flinching from wounds and blows,
hiding shrinking assets from
unrelenting claims, the isolate
poison with one remedy—
high notes and clear notes,
deep humming from the well
of self, the heart allowed to vibrate,
uttering prayers enough to flock,
celebrating small victories, risking
private passions, one human sending,
one receiving, now and again.
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