6 hours ago
Peer Review
Death speaks with the wrong voice
from a wrong number.
You ask her to repeat it,
as if the words would change
and you could forget
that you heard them.
It is like driving and suddenly
being there,
at the destination,
hands on the wheel,
no streets behind you,
no miles, no signs.
There is only the classroom,
the fluorescent lights, other faces,
you speaking to the instructor,
the words muffled
as if from far away,
an echo of a conversation
you already had.
The need to leave is the only point.
You turn without knowing
if you finished speaking.
I was told later that I was smiling.
They saw it before I did,
and I never got to correct the hypothesis.
Death speaks with the wrong voice
from a wrong number.
You ask her to repeat it,
as if the words would change
and you could forget
that you heard them.
It is like driving and suddenly
being there,
at the destination,
hands on the wheel,
no streets behind you,
no miles, no signs.
There is only the classroom,
the fluorescent lights, other faces,
you speaking to the instructor,
the words muffled
as if from far away,
an echo of a conversation
you already had.
The need to leave is the only point.
You turn without knowing
if you finished speaking.
I was told later that I was smiling.
They saw it before I did,
and I never got to correct the hypothesis.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson