[What We Do Not Sing]

 
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BY PETER GRANDBOIS

You were born in the stillness

between elms and

like branches you were raised

on creak and moan

 

*

 

Five years old and you can’t imagine

why there are days without snow

days when the need for another

language can overwhelm

 

*

 

Eleven and what you do not sing

already a circle feeding on itself

like the Bullsnake you grabbed by the tail

hoping to keep it from its home

 

*

 

Fourteen and you enter your own whale

crawling the sewer beneath the field

toward old toward groan toward “O

what a dank and sorrowful realm”

 

*

 

At sixteen you wear the crow of silence

like a shield its wings trapping you

in the center of your friends

as if we belonged to ourselves

 

*

 

At twenty-one you search for a doorway

into the body no matter the mouth

mapping the way as you walk only

to find you carried the emptiness within

 

 

*

 

Thirty-seven and you are born each time

the voice calls you to a house of words

a day made of sand from the other shore

It scares you that the voice is not your own

 

*

 

Forty-seven and the language of you

disappears like a brown bat chasing

an echo into the red river’s roar

the nettle’s bloom the only clue

 

*

 

Fifty-four and you’ve slept forever

on a bed of roots where memory

bleeds to black dreaming of your house

but it is here inside this poem

 

*


Of what lies beyond, we know nothing

except how the body lies holy

except how what we do not sing clothes us

         in light

except how the dazzle of wings within us

         might survive


 

Peter Grandbois is the author of eleven books. His work has appeared in over one hundred journals. His plays have been performed in St. Louis, Columbus, Los Angeles, and New York. He is poetry editor at Boulevard and teaches at Denison University in Ohio. You can find him at www.petergrandbois.com.

Process Note: This poem was born out of the intense feeling of time passing and how there’s nothing we can do about it. The poem is a reflection on a life lived, looking back at the most significant moments, significant because they marked the branching of a new and different me. For the poem is also a meditation on how many different selves exist inside us, how when we look back through the years, it’s almost impossible to recognize those other versions of ourselves. In the end it is a song celebrating those versions.