There are things we do not tell
when we tell about weather
and being fine.
Our other voices take sanctuary
while police with their shepherds
stand guard
at the borders of breath
lest our stories escape
this holy building
of ourselves.
How did we come to be
so unlike the chickens
clucking their hearts out
openly in the rain,
the horses just being horses
on the hillside,
and coyotes howling
their real life at the moon?
We don’t tell our inner truth
and no one believes it anyway.
No wonder I am lying
in the sagging bed,
this body with the bad ankle
and fifteen scars showing,
and in the heart, my god,
the horrors of living.
And in my veins, dear mother,
the beauties of my joyous life,
the ribs and skull and being,
the eyes with real smiles
despite the sockets they live in
that know where they are going.
Outside, the other voices are speaking.
Pine needles sing with rain
and a night crawler
with its five hearts
beats it
across the road.
In silence
the other voices speak
and they are mine
and they are not mine
and I hear them
and I don’t,
and even police can’t stop earth telling.