Silence can never be a river
because the river always comes back to
where the pitchfork must have held its place,
coming and going, determined, like the endless
bobbing of the buoy in the sea.
On the riverside, we stood motionless among
the leaning pillars leaning over our shoulders
as their heated breath circled our necks.
We held hands and said almost nothing, except
when you spoke the words of Marianne Moore:
'The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence.'
I did not believe this; your hands always lied.
Afternoon broke off like jilted lovers.
Branches of trees crackled like stepped on peanut shells.
Light escaped through the sieve of the canopy
that colored our faces orange. We looked at each other.
Your body shivered a little to the cool breeze.
I directed my gaze to the river that flowed on and on,
calm in its repose. How we had wanted to jump in it.
But I keep telling you: silence can never be a river
because the river returns everything to the sea
among the many names that must have drowned,
your name and my name, lost in the blue permanence
      of the sky-reflected.
The river goes and grows on you like a disease: you
walk away from it knowing something had changed in you.
It is not in the river where we forgot how to speak,
mouths furled to a furrow, our tongues in abeyance.
And we did not bother to lick off the words unlearned
that have settled at the bottom of our lips
knowing it is the right thing to do.