for miriam, who hears voices
If the voices are there
you can't ignore them,
whether they come up through
the floorboards
on a conduit of music
or in a rattle of words that make
sounds but no sense.
They can be messages from the sky
in the form of rain at the window,
or in the cold silent statements of snow.
Sometimes it's the dad talking,
and there is comfort in that
like listening to your parents
in the next room,
and perhaps it's the same parents
still talking years after they've gone.
If you're lucky, the vowels
you hear are shaped like sleep—
simple cries from the thicket
of your dreams. You lie in bed.
If the voices are there, you listen.
kristallnacht
was the word I heard
my parents whisper behind
closed doors. And I pictured
the world under a sudden
enchantment of ice, each tree limb
braceleted in crystal, each lamppost,
each windshield glazed
and electrically gleaming,
the very air wincing with light.
And the only sound would be
a myriad tinkling,
as of a thousand thousand
miniature wind chimes.
The treacherous beauty of words!
Crystal night: the stars themselves
blazing and frozen in place.
instruction
You must rock your pain in your arms
until it's asleep, then leave it
in a darkened room
and tiptoe out.
For a moment you will feel
the emptiness of peace.
But in the next room
your pain is already stirring.
Soon it will be
calling your name.
Squint
and that low line
of blue cloud
hovering
over the treetops
could be an ocean—the roar
of the highway
the clamorous waves
breaking.
And that dark shape menacing
your every footstep
could be no more
than your own obedient shadow.
See whatever you want
to see. Even
at the moment of death
forget the door
opening on darkness.
See instead
the familiar faces
you thought were lost.