The Silence

I've carried it inside me all my life,
somewhere between my abdomen and epiglottis.
It follows its own seasons, swells like ripe fruit
plugging the larynx, or shrinks to a stone hard pit.

When I was younger they feared me possessed,
spoke loudly, mouthing each syllable
as if I were deaf or simple. It flourished
in the blank stares I chose to answer with.

When I speak now it shivers like a conscience,
troubled by what I might not mean, cuts me off
mid-sentence, plays cat and mouse with words,
scrambles syntax. I go unheard in meetings.

From time to time it blossoms, insists on space.
I'll disconnect the doorbell, unplug the phone.
Printed words become a chanting mob
so all the books get shelved, newpapers binned.

Bass winds might tune up in the chimney
or rain make idle talk against the windows.
I sit, count breaths. The stove ticks. The alembic
of the gut ferments, the blood's hydraulics roar.

Eventually, in full flower, it'll have me to itself.
I'll listen out for currents in the air,
my thoughts retreating voices in a garden.

(from Living on the Difference)

© Mike Barlow