A conversation begins
with a lie. and each
speaker of the so-called common language feels
the ice-floe split, the drift apart
as if powerless, as if up against
a force of nature
A poem can begin
with a lie. And be torn up.
Adrienne Rich, Cartographies of Silence
Because you create amazing things for TK
…the uncommon language is where truth is holding up
speaks itself into obscurity and only a few reach down
to letters at the bottom of trunk, paper laced antique--
covet the secrets told behind spotted hands, tucked into the pockets
of the younger ones, who sometimes forget to retrieve them
until we are searching for ourselves
…a letter came today and you say now, I know the story
the details come in thirty-eight words of the so—called common language
and we know what it means, even from this strangeness.
You are angry--
not at the horror but at the hiding--at the words swallowed
through a scratchy throat that will not heal--chafed from the reflex
of holding them down.
This will never make history: the ugliness of men, the violations,
the death of love, postponed--until the last lie is incinerated.
Swallow her legacy, forgive her brutality and her silence.
We speak in tongues that rise like heat, scatter the ashes
of a dead past. Ours is the language of invisible ink.
Everything you touch is dusted with the remnants of her words--
you can see generations of fingerprints on your guitar and tabla.
As you recite it aloud, write it in this letter, retell it over, you know--
all language is unreliable, temporary, prone to misunderstanding.
Truth was there all along and wrote your story to a tee.
Honor it. Honor her.
Causes Elmaz Abinader Supports