two
syllables
Standing is too abrupt, too
rushed, to say goodbye.
Hurried words
escape like satchels from
the
baggage claim. Frozen
words hover over parting gates
and lettered halls
that smell
of seasoned fries and
sauerkraut.
Sitting, too sedate,
ponderous
as a houseboat. We are
not a metal lamp turned from
incandescent hot
to cool with
a tap. We are not a
book slapped shut.
Prone.
Prone will
say goodbye.
Prone as a floating leaf
marooned,
resting on a cypress
root set
to make its move.
Prone as a cat
stretched belly-down on
a
smooth brick floor
shaded
with rafters painted the color
of sky; hummingbirds zip
in and out through
banister rails
like days.
My lips, silenced.
Words wait like Guatemalan
jewelry in
a drawer.
Words (I try
to say
goodbye)
that
cannot
reach
my mouth
fall wet with drops
of jade and silverplated
beads
along my face, spilling
from a broken thread of wire.
Mia Moore
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