2.

There was a tragedy in the family
that winter, and I swear, the
clouds were mourning with us.

Good morning was a true thing
that was too hard to say.

So often I kept my mouth shut
that winter, so as not to ripple
when stillness is due.
Reflection became inflection, a tone of
voice, not audible, inside, like a prayer.
For although I kept my mouth shut
there was too much to say and my
head was a loud, congested place to
be.

So when you said good morning,
oh yes, I heard you, and it set
off all the voices asking, telling,
is it really a good morning?
To which one has to conclude its
decidedly not. And by the time
this decision was made, you had
walked on. Walked by. Walked
through me. And inside my head,
I was crying.