Responding To The Poem On A Wednesday Afternoon

There’s a rhythm to this room,
its hollowed sound,
the ten of us
scratching away
at the surface of
this poem,
uncovering the tiny seeds,
the husked secrets
crevassed into the
crystaled white of
memory.

The loudest of them
all, is the one with
the blue pencil.
The one who can’t stand the cold,
who is writing now
about the barren trees,
the tempered wind,
about the snowglaze she would have hated,
she is hating.
Her thoughts scream against the poem,
scrap,
scratch against
the lined white of her page,
carving out an image;
harsh weedstalks,
pulling up through the underbrush,
announcing their
presence,
announcing their place.

And yet the rhythm subsides,
the room, the hands,
the poem subsiding,
sound swallowing sound, age
falling into, onto age,
the wind
speaking of some great matter
even we have
turned from,
even we have missed.

by luca irving

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