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.
