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                  after “Stone” by Charles Simic


I cannot make them out, 
these strange writings 
on my inner walls. 
Each time I feel closer
to deciphering the marks,
it’s as if they rearrange
themselves into new
more mysterious lines. 
Some part of me deeply
wants to read them, 
to know their secrets.
She takes out her eraser,
her pencil, and begins 
the translations again.
Some part of me sits
easily in the midst of all 
I do not understand. 
She watches the swallows
trace shapes in the air
with the dark inky tips 
of their wings. 

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Once I would say “table,” and mean

“table.” Once, I would say

“broccoli” and mean “broccoli.”

I would say “stone” and mean

“stone.” I really did believe

that things were separate.

And nameable. Now,

every word that comes

out of my mouth, no matter

how many syllables, no matter

the tone of voice, no matter

my intention, I’ve come to understand

that every word

is really just a translation

for thank you,

thank you for this moment.

And every silence between the words,

regardless how brief,

is really just the sound

of one hand in gratitude clapping.

 

 

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