a journal of poetry
JENNIFER CLARVOEIn the Nights of Cacophonynot in the nights before creation, but after Eden; when static crackled, and sound was thick, not as in thickets riddled with snakes/hoots/lightning/vines; but because of statistics; fifty-seven clicks & flickering channelspitched to the galaxy, saturation was a chattering of the particular, outgoing messages from answering machines; now it is all we have and then some; or does the sweet cool hum of fridge and fluorescent that sang “home” hold its own? It was neverabout anything more than itself, the familiar. Read to me; family is not a game, now drop everything. Silence. No thing, no song. Simplicity, though, that whistles in the dark, and nevernotices itself to be the benison it is, flutes high and low, not to guide us with some chirpy dicta that acceptance will contain loss and that no lie bleats and blares. On the tip of the tongue, what is plain is aboutto change – singing in the inmost heart of the final tiny lies. All of it is silent, all of it is about to fall silent, is any of it clamorous in the air? In the strong-lunged, force- ful good-byes, the megaphone and all the media, we have the tritestsingle-mindedness, some think, thank god. Deception is no Gog and Magog, no formless chaos. It up and does. The moon shudders in the cosmos like a gong. And it is so long gone, the silence after the signing off, out of hearing, out of here.
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