Silence: mosquito buzz
in my ears. That
and the sound of waves
sweeping from one beach end
to the other, the way a rope
tied to a post returns movement
when whipped. Like the tide,
I write unsure
of where these words
come from and what
they want to say. I’ve resigned
the idea that every poem
must whisper secrets. I’m content
to describe the way two kids
destroy the sand dunes
chasing a ball, or how
the streetlights add depth
to the night-blackened
hills that encircle this bay.
I’m content
with the silence.
Knowing my parents
watch a made-for-TV movie
or a friend returns from a concert
with ringing ears
doesn’t stop me from feeling
the whole world is silence,
a sailboat anchored
just beyond the breakers.
And maybe I’m arriving
to some point,
because when I pause
to look for stars through the clouds
I realize that I miss her, that quietness
was never an infinite ocean
and uncomfortable bench
when she’d feint a whisper
then stare
into my eyes like a child
without words.
LOCATION: Vila Histórica de Mambucaba, Brazil
