Having never spared a thought that it may hurt this much
were I to strain my voice against a stricken & starless sky,

I strain my voice now against what stars a sky
gone dark, navy blue radio silence, a hollow psalm

gutted for what seemed too dark & silent, this open psalm
spread out in penitence. What I’m trying to say is that,

thinly spread—a pittance—to say that,
I struggle. Not because this poem ought to be quiet—it’s not—

but because the old gods & masters want the quiet. They teach it’s not
about their own worlds speaking the quiet part out loud

but that every other worlds’ refrains refrain from this quiet-out-loud.
I miss the gentle strength of language palpably taut,

held with what little strength my language holds before snapping, taut.
I want to sing in variable volumes, decibels hardly thought

possible, a whisper’s whisper, having decided a hard thought
has neither sparred with softness nor risked that doing so could hurt this much.

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Unsplash