On avoidance of action.

When my voice is raised and
your voice is raised
and we are screaming at the sky
wondering why
no one can hear us
over the hollow quiet
of shattered ears.

When our darting eyes
follow every refracted glare
to avoid the gaping wound,
fractured earth,
swallower of light.

Silence is a golden dagger,
held to a throat.

You and I,
our bodies crumble to the dust--
swept along sidewalks,
between columns
of spines, rows of ribs.
The cage door cracked
but the heart didn't fly,
didn't even flutter.
And still you wonder,
why?

Why our lips move in a vacuum,
a dance not satisfactory,
a pair of lovers not communicating
but unable to step away?

There it is, that gaping wound again,
swallowing the day again.
Dry and cracked,
the fissures split
little rivulets of red
out and over the edge,
threatening to spill
into straining pupil,
still darting, still darting away.

The dagger plunges,
the river plunges
into darkness, illuminated.
All is lifted, all is light.

And then the cries begin,
and the eyes begin
to see:

There is blood in the streets!
There is blood in the streets!
And yet the foot paths, tire-tracks
paint on into glowing taillights.



-12/03/10

© Farhana Jahan