— Harry Lafnear
I’ve polished the last of what pearls there were
lodged under the oyster of my tongue
and laid them out on the lawn
so I no longer rattle through the day.
I am not the slightest surprised that the hollow left
feels not as empty as when it craned
with its buzzing cargo.
That the truth could ever be finished was
startling at the first,
but far less so than the notion it would ever begin.
Some words are just too small to feel in the throat,
no matter how jagged the seed.
They stick until soothed, round and smooth,
and too swollen to push thoughtlessly from the gullet.
They are a birth to divulge
and a drowning to swallow;
peaceful and lovely, only after
and from afar.