In the absence of words,
there are words.
They’re not the ones we want to say.
They’re wrong is so many ways,
unimportant, and really only sounds we make
as we try to give a voice
to feelings, like birds, that won’t be caught,
evade us with flight,
or nestle in trees, hidden.
We say them anyway, the wrong words,
the weak words, the ones that suggest, at best.
To hold them back would be betrayal,
a failure of the heart and soul,
a shortfall of humanity
in the face of human tragedy.
If the words are wrong, so what?
To not voice that which cries for a tongue,
to refuse because there is an absence
of perfect words, words like pearls
to decorate this somber occasion,
is to worry about the furniture
rather than the house and those inside.
Speak them, though scantness
makes them small. Inadequate.
Speak them though they’re not enough.
In the absence of words, there are always words,
clichéd, unimportant words,
and the nexus underneath them.
April 2020