after Mary Szybist
But give me your silences,
and I will wear them on my clothes,
the delicate remains of your tongue
clinging to this body, these limbs
you gave me to fruit the world.
Give me your absences, too,
and I will carry them, happily,
I will hang each emptiness
from these limbs, this body
you gave me to overcome.
So when the wind blows,
I will rattle back to you
something like praise.
So I will be the hand ringing
your ossuary of bells,
these skeletons you spoke to me,
these words I crush
in the hollow of my hand.
But give me your silences,/ and I will wear them on my clothes,