the things we cannot say

buried to the bottom of mud
and the weight of soggy snow
in a sweet and gentle earth
yet half-frozen as a tundra of the soul

here you could find a bucketfull of children's treasure
plastic soldiers and playing cards
and miniature dolls, demure and synthetic-haired

but like a locked box or a padlock key
i know the hidden things;
ravenous and brooding like a starving artist
or a flock of crows at dawn that caw and coax out the morning

if i could dance and find expression in the grace of my body,
the line from neck to shoulder, the curve of a hip, the poignance
of a flexed foot, a pointed toe, a simple tilt of my chin into the light

maybe then there would be a voice to speak and an ear to hear,
where things i miss can flow deep without shame,
where words drip with sweet meaning -- depth, not merely symbolic,
but crucially symbolic and pointing to a hidden life
far beyond themselves.

and here, i might be allowed to show the softer parts of me.