A Song of Solomon
 
It’s amazing
how when you stop speaking
the silence
is right there,
awkward,
as if your voice should take its place
not callously,
like the relentless jabber of aunts
who spend too much time alone,
but naturally,
like cicadas in the summer.
I listen to you speak again,
consumed in some cliché way
by the words
which unfold themselves,
giving you extra dimensions
 
Oh, everything ends;
A hub good-bye
heart-felt words
and a kiss on the
cheek.
 
But then you stay,
looking at me
with the Spanish Inquisition
in you eyes
as if you expect something more
than our friendship;
A mythical beast
to burst from my chest,
the oxygen I breathe
turn into violet fire
in the still air.
 
I wonder what it is
that you search
so desperately for
that can solve all the riddles
that fill the night
like cricket songs in summer.
 
by Peter B. Sanderson
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