No Stone of Silence

  
Not one to cast a stone of silence,  
your poetry angles a position  
mounted by hurt and hunger,  
a post-religious itch to unravel  
the unchewed bitter cud of failed kinships.  
Some see it as a safe haven    
for lost childhoods  
claw-hammering open nailed-coffins,  
examining rotting contents with a detached eye    
to scrape, at long last, a meagre healing.  
Others smell stinking entrails    
hung on the washing line for salacious airing  
as neighbours watch wide-eyed in confused respect    
with nervous titters of soiled self-recognition.  
Such capitulation, albeit reluctant,    
applauds the steady nerve of passive resistance  
until maturity offers freedom for an active choice;  
a sharp pleasure releases black-bottled ink.  
To recover from this onslaught  
I shall pinch your 1940s sit-up-and-beg bicycle  
cover it in gold leaf  
and use its big basket    
to cart dug spuds and onions  
from my sacred allotment.  
Each pedal-turn reminds me of your open letter  
declining the White House invitation in 2005.  
   
   
   
#Sharon Olds