I try to carry silence
in the lining of my overcoat,
but it is everywhere, in hiding,
taking the shape of everything.

I fear I might become a myth,
grow a beard over these scars –
but some days my shadow sleeps in,
and this ache betrays my smile.

I recycle prayers like classic rock songs,
a safe playlist on a continuous loop,
wondering if God will station hop.
But he never does. He never does.

I know I am naked under this armor,
singing of love as fire sings to paper.
I want to let this silence out, but
I know the fate of delicate things.

My hands are shaking, legs unsteady
as I try to grapple with this truth.
I tell silence, It’s ok, my friend.
I know you’re there. Our time is coming.

 

 

Selected byRaymond Huffman
Hugh Lemma

Hugh does not prefer to talk about himself in the third person, but if he did, he'd tell you he's in a self-imposed exile on the east coast of the USA, but still loves his former home in the Sonoran Desert. He is the author of Odd Numbers And Evensongs and Auditions For The Afterlife.