Jennifer Herron
A Dusty Poem on the Day's End

Some tone of desperation
hangs mildly in the air
as it belongs there,
uncomfortably resting
on the salty tips of our tongues,
unspoken and unsung.

The silence reverberate,
interrupted only
by the soft churn,
the lazy chain
of my thoughts
bouncing about in the cavern of my head
to be left unfinished
and unsaid.

With my instincts unfettered,
a guttural language
bathes me in an unfiltered light,
and my head feels heavier,
dangerous,
lonesome.

It seems to me
that it should be
a consequential proclamation
to be pounded and nailed to every wooden door
because there must be something
worth speaking for.

As the sunlight begins to dwindle,
the grandfather chimes seem to lengthen,
its slowed ticking reminding me
that evening waits restlessly.

Everyone leans back in chairs,
faces tucked neatly against walls, book-
shelves, shoulders,
inviting thoughts of home -
small, cozy, family places
with brilliance beaming on children faces -
where desolation meets dissolution.

Maybe it is because I am
entertaining visions
and mocking isolation
that I feel fearless, tired, bleak.
Always moving forward,
the past crashed in waves behind me;
the sea, a living tomb
and my heart, a buried thought.

I thought
singularly,
narrowly -
the only way to survive,
and by enveloping desire,
I am able to contain pain.

Back to Issue 1, 1999