What She
Left Unsaid
How it felt when a red grape
burst beneath her teeth, a sharp,
sour blessing, little kick of pleasure
shadowing her face,
or the room’s heat, furnace
clicking off and on, bare branches
scratching at windows,
a stillness on this street without
cars. She wouldn’t speak
of the day her hands fluttered
off her wrists, wayward birds
dusting a gray hill with feathers
and filth, or the night her tongue
burned and slithered from her
mouth as if the earth had turned
too cold and darkness beckoned
with its heat. She left those words
buried in her chest, locked
in the small safe she had bolted
next to her heart, that half-crazed
organ beating its wild way toward
lightness and flight as each small
moment gathered to create this life
she owned: silent, secret, unafraid.
If
you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar
would be pleased to hear from you.
