In the room where the boy
was crying still hangs the feeling
of tears. Though he is quiet
and now asleep. Though
the tides of his wails have lulled
into the slow luff of dream.
His absent howl in the starlit room
is like the sound of the sea
in a dusty shell—not here. But the ears
hear what they want to hear.
There is a choice to notice
the silence, how it fills
the room. Not even the cat is moving.
Or to polish again the memory
of the tears. Like a canker that only
hurts when its touched, but the tongue
visits again and again to be sure.
Oh. Yes. It still hurts.
So much good stuff, even for you, this poem: the boy’s absent howl like the roar of the ocean in a seashell; the memory of the argument being like the sore that you can’t let alone—and how precisely close those two are: sore spot and sore heart—and how the silence fills the room. (Implicit, I think, is that it’s the irksome silence that resonants and echoes after emotions have been flying in high-full verbal force, rather than the calm collective type.) And I love, “the slow luff of dreams,” that it’s a “dusty” seashell one holds to their ear.
Hope there’s been miles of sleep since whatever incident, if any, inspired this poem.
Dulce sueños, treasured Trommers.
Thanks dear Eduardo … You’re a wonderful reader. Thank you r
That’s a good one, can’t think of a thing to say besides Wow. In fact, this is not a thinking poem, it’s one brimming with so much raw emotion it numbs the brain and fibralates the heart.