the blueshift journal

In response to Cynthia Dewi Oka's "Post Election Song of Myself"

 

I am without speech.

My nonverbal communication is that the body is sign of love.

If I were to say something, it would be: Grandfather,

 

look, I have a sister you never got to meet.

When she sings, I hear the lullaby

the Death March failed to take from you.

 

I see your body walking on any day but that

and walking on that day, too. My sister:

you would love her: the body of her words:

 

a hunger that turns a fork into a hand:

your hand upon my mouth: holding my mouth quiet:

no, keeping it from biting its tongue.