The ones his age who shook my hand
on their way out sent fear along
my arm like heroin. These werent
men mute about their feelings,
or whats a body language for?
And I, the glib one, whod stood
with my back to my fathers body
and praised the heart that attacked him?
Id made my stab at elegy,
the flesh made word: the very spit
in my mouth was sour with ruth
and eloquence. What could be worse?
Silence, the anthem of my fathers
new country. And thus this babble,
like a dial tone, from our bodies.