A hand goes up in a house somewhere on the edge of nowhere.
A child taught never to speak out of turn is seeking permission
to be a part of a conversation.
It is raining outside. The ground is turning to mud.
And the fathers head is in a cloud fugue of “I was a master, my
hands once built houses.”
The mother forgot her power
a long time ago to a man who thought clothes were for
tearing and ripping through.
The child’s hand is still raised
like a frozen mile marker indicating an event of great importance
a long time ago.
If I were writing about this event
20 years ago I would insert here a metaphor about someone
coming or going on a train
Or that they had booked passage
on a ship; but today is today – so now the pain is written and
arrives in an email.
So you tell me, what
is the difference between that email and silence? “Ignoring”
is the new great art form.