Holy Silence
I awoke in a holy silence
from that darkened womb
where I’ve remained a child. My eyelids
shut tight, my ears sewn
with a thread from a loom
that I had made so long ago
I’d forgotten why. Strewn
about too are a collection of trinkets so
cherished and worn, though
I was told to worship them.
And I heeded the command so
eagerly, but mostly just when
my masters watched. They said
“otherwise you’ll be full of regret,”
and “it’s not safe out there.” So I returned to my bed
and fell asleep once my eyes were wet.
Regret. The most feared of all fears
is fear of fear. Beyond the warm fleshy walls
of my container lies failure and tears
though all of it free. The calls
of men and large birds from far off
reached me only sometimes though clear and strong:
“grab an oar and row! We’re lost
and we follow Orion and the song
of our own composition.
Ocean spray and hard black bread
will be your reward. But listen
to the wind and you’ll never feel regret at night in bed.”
I looked around at my things: some books,
some degrees, some cash, and knew
that one day this room despite how safe it looks
would cause me the most pain of all. This was true.
At first my masters coaxed me to stay with words
of praise, then warnings, then threats—
I gave in and slept. But at night the birds
once again beckoned and the men cast their nets.
It was dark all around and I could hardly see.
My masters screamed viciously and breathed fire
as the walls closed around me
and my trinkets pushed higher
into my skin. The walls were tight as leather.
Far off I heard that song and joined in
with my muffled tenor. Still we were together
and in a light I saw my new kin.
I grabbed hold of a net, then a hand,
and was pulled through a dark tunnel towards blue
emerging cold and wet onto white sand.
I was alone, though they had been too.
And so I awoke into this holy silence
of the new and the strange.
Now I sleep on beaches, the stars are my presents,
and my life is no longer governed by pain.