Silent
by
Nicole Amsler
My
skeletal fingers tent over my chest
A
makeshift cage for my aching, thrumming heart
Pain
can still slide in
Like
a fume, a moth, miasma
But
my fingers clench, at the ready
To
beat back that which threatens.
Futile
dispersion.
But
they do not reach, do not beckon, call
They
do not beseech or even pray.
My
hands only bear witness, gnarled and still.
They
do not speak the anguish
Instead
words perish, congealed and unknowable
A
barnacle, a lesion, an ectopic pearl
The
unspoken, Brailled in scar tissue.
From
Nicole Amsler: Seldom a poet, I write stunningly dull marketing
copy as my day job and magical realism fiction at night. I am a
writer conference groupie, a middle aged cosplayer, and a book pimp.
I've moved eleven times in my 20+ year marriage and Indiana is the
only place I've lived twice.