I just wanted everyone to know that my silence over the past week or so is because I got nothin'. I don't know if it's a lack of material, writer's block or just having the blahs, but I don't have a single thing to write about other than writing about not having anything to write about.
So, I'll share one of my poems. At least it will fill up space.
The dead are here. They breathe
on white sheets that I clip
to a cotton line, and suck the water
from coarse towels. They sit quietly
between rows of beans and glazed tomatoes;
filter dark earth through fingers
that once picked green peas from the vine.
The dead are here. They wait
until I pass through the shaded doorway
so they can whisper on my neck.
The words are indistinct,
yet I know they carry with them
the wisdom I have yet to attain.
It is there on the edge of my mind
waiting to find its way to my lips
like a name that one forgets
only to have it drop
from those spaces in your memory
where thoughts go to hide.
The dead are here. They rest
on faded red cushions and watch
as I soap the baby in the cool white sink.
Taste as I stir the pot of soup;
tell me when I’ve added too much salt.
They bring me notes from an unseen place
as I sit at a piano whose keys
are smooth from years of play.
And when night falls, the dead
gather on the edge
of sheets that smell like the sun,
as I read aloud these words.