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The sirens
wail the soundtrack
of this silent spring,
a keening intertwined with birdsong
by day,
with my daughter’s dry, dry cough
through the night,
life and death bound together contrapuntal
on and on,
so that I no longer hear the sirens,
until I do.
From Days of Grace and Silence: A Chronicle of COVID’s Long Haul (Kelsay Books, 2024). Copyright © 2024 by Ann E. Wallace. Reprinted with the permission of the poet.
We have all learned to hear
silence these years, but the quiet
that beats within is ours alone,
mine from yours, yours from mine.
The silence of each place
is different. You might locate
yourself by listening for how
the earth pulses beneath your feet.
It’s been decades since
my body held a narrative
clear and simple. It turned
to poetry long ago, when
a refrain emerged, was
repeated with life
interrupted once, then
again, and again.
A poem always begins