- a descant on Emily Dickinson’s 672 -
Nothing was spoken,
nor ever a syllable
given in signs.
We pined for a token
of answers that might
be conjectured of lines.
The future was silent
and never let on
of the troubles to come,
despite the defiant
demands for respite
from the dead and the dumb.
Nothing was spoken.
Nothing was spoken
but equal indifference
to dower and doom,
from streets of Hoboken
to bays of the far
Oregonian gloom.
The news came and flattened
whatever it was
we’d expected of late.
It just sort of happened.
The future delivered
its message from fate.
Nothing was spoken.
Nothing is spoken
from history’s jaw,
be it gaping or sealed.
What mends wasn’t broken;
what doesn’t is something
that couldn’t be healed.
No, nothing was spoken –
the nothing that isn’t,
the nothing that saves.
The children were woken,
the elders were quietly
placed in their graves.
Nothing was spoken.