The word, the stone,
the ringing phone,
the part of me
that wants to be alone,

the vow of silence
in the reeds;
God descends
in ravenese.

The vinegar tasters
dip their fingers,
make their faces:
stoic, bitter,

strangely sweet.
The seeker leaves
for Bangladesh,
the prophets check

for signs of theft,
the singers sing
for what is left.
The children breathe.

Come of age.
Search the faces
for a taste of
what's to come:

the widening road,
the row your boat,
he choked with weeds,
the rabbit hole.

This holding on.

The word, the stone,
the ringing phone.
The part of we
that answers when alone.

More Poems by Wendy Videlock