A Crack in the Wall
is Made of Song
by Evan Elsass
Tonight, I have turned out the lights.
Tonight, I have taken the watch
away from my wrist and I have closed
it in the nightstand drawer. I think
of how I fit the hours of my life
into such a small place. I believe
the word forget is my only invisible act.
It is a verb made of glass. I lie in bed
and listen to one of my dead brother’s songs.
He is in here with me now, singing
from someplace inside the dark. Song—
something to which I harness my hunger
like the feathering of a prayer and the killing
of a rooster in reverse. I believe
he recorded this song somewhere in Spokane
in the basement of a halfway house.
As I listen to his voice, I envision him
kneeling on a cold, unfinished floor.
I say song is something that makes
a ghost unfurl. I do not say the cobwebs
in the corners are cobwebs. I say the corners
of this house are each their own constellation.
I say song is something that asks the guards
to close their eyes and hum. As song is the sound
of a creature holding soft its prayer. As song
can crack a wall and make a place for two children
to pass notes, who long ago were told to sleep.