What of it
what of it
what of this
shining thing of need,
a bloody swelling,
some balloon
full of a breatheable blood —
if you take a mouthful,
your voice will
rise,
rise,
rise,
become
a high pitched scream,
but like every other moment,
every other incident,
it is a scream
that they cannot hear,
that only we can hear.
We know the language;
we know the steps,
the missing stairs.
We know how easy it is
to be forgotten.
We know what it is to know.
I ain’t forgetting you. Raise your voice, Jones. Nice and loud.
If I scream it, maybe I’ll hear it too, eh?
I hope so. I’m always listening for you.