by Barbara Siegel Carlson
Who carries the cries of the dead
past the bouquets and stuffed animals
propped between road signs?
Who will breathe the cry that steeped
in a boy’s throat who held a gun for speech?
It was the cry that shot at faces in the snow,
the cry that kept the shots ringing.
Where do the inmost cries go when love
can’t swallow our secrets?
Who would lift that love to their lips,
kiss the terror that has no dream,
withdraw the flowing veil?
Ask the bell with no tongue, the whiteness
with sorrow, the silent earth with its bed of dreams.
Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Siegel Carlson.