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NOTICE: This work is the property of the author[s]/creator[s]. Subject to the right of "Fair Use" as recognized by law, no person may print, reprint, publish, copy, perform, deliver, transmit or sell any work posted on the National Gallery of Writing without the prior written permission of the author[s]/creator[s]. NCTE assumes no responsibility for the unlawful or unauthorized use of any work posted on the National Gallery of Writing. The Lost Maker I kneel beside him and turn his half-prayer- Cupped hand from the palm to his fingernails’ Cracked, pink, broad, oval shells that grow over Dark pearls of his blood and touch born away. His fine hair, gray and soft, still moves easily In my hands as coldness ashes a cast Over his cheeks and last expressed caution– Eyes slightly open in a weary-dog sleep Even after nearing death’s arrival. But behind his parted lips, the swallow’s Dart and dive, flicker and perch have flown. Nothing of the quick is left in his tongue That lies forever wedged, the lost maker Of voice, the part of him that is most dead. |
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