Tricia Knoll Verse-Virtual 2016 July

July 2016

The record-breaking heat is upon us in Oregon -- with ripe blueberries way early and a garden of luscious lettuce. My husband, the dog, and I have settled into quiet times watching the green of our woods twitter. My poetry collections include Ocean's Laughter (Aldrich Press 2016) and a chapbook, Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press 2014). Website: triciaknoll.com

An Interview with the Goddess of Silence

You’re usually shown with your fingertip to a bandage on your lips. Why?
            That is an ancient portrait.
            Silence suffers a bad name.

You hint that silence has its own melody. What do you hear?
            All eyes of all creatures.
            The ricochet of rain
            off tombstones.
            Verses written with water
            on old boulders.
            Hope sent up a string
            to the invisible Kite.
            Recitals when earth
            accepts ashes.

Should I be afraid of silence?
            Some would say so.
            Sirens ring over nothing
            in the firefighter’s ears.
            When you cannot break it
            or suffer from a quarantine.
            Think that Scottish play
            and the unnamable god.
            Orange caution beside the burning bush.
            I keep secrets.

Help me see it.
            The fountain freezes.
            A fisted hand
            coils a whip
            that points people
            toward one camp
            or another.

Can you translate it?
            As the snowflake falls
            on dark water.
            Counts suspended
            between lightning and thunder.
            The leaden descent of gut
            that follows the first gunshot.

You’ve said you have heard an echo of silence?
            My miscarriage.
            My sedated eyes see inside
            black eyelids. I twitch, hate
            how that woman screams
            her witch shrieks. Stop her!
            Who is she?
            Then a nurse. Pats my hand.
            That is you. That is when
            I took off the bandage.

Tell me how silence resonates.
            Amsterdam’s Dam Platz
            May 4, 1967
            remember the war dead,
            lay down fresh bouquets.
            Twenty thousand people
            speak no words for two minutes.
            One gull’s call harbors
            across that half-mast square.

What part peace?
            Lovers’ sleep, thus-ness
            of woods, naps
            of newborns, suckles
            at teats. A doe halts.
            A ceasefire that truly ceases.

What else should I know?
            I wear the perfume of hush-hush,
            woodsmoke and musk,
            sincerity and slept-in salted silk.
            Silence is usually continent,
            not always sober. It reflects
            like a mirror hung over hearths
            to make rooms look bigger.

            In each surround, listen
            to who is voiceless by choice
            or not.
            Reason asks what reason.
            Caring opens the gate
            to the pasture for a duet
            with the Guernica horse.