Emily Strauss
This Week's Submissions
(with thanks to New Pages)
this week we are seeking
stark and meaningful words
a dialog between ambiguity
and a concept, words raw
shuddering, unabashed
language that drips thick
and pierces us deeply
storytelling both precise
and oddly angled
with moments that segment
life into before and after
work that roars, quietly
that makes our hearts
swell with bitterness and joy—
nothing written to satisfy
the imagined capacities
and desires of an audience,
please—
I will try.
“sound like a bubble on the surface of silence...”
do you hear that?
When I'm alone, I'm deaf
to the Other, there is no reply
small noises disappear
into the thin air at noon
the quiet a vast ocean
of white light.
but do you hear that?
Amidst all the traffic
a pure white heron stands
motionless in the canal
riders pass by, the white
stalk of long legs and beak
not waving in the wind
trucks bleating against
the stagnant water.
I think I can hear now.
My window is closed tight
against night's murmur
distant frogs & crickets
settling feathers of an owl
but I hear nothing outside
my thick glass walls,
I am sealed and safe.
there — a bubble rising!
The silence grows heavy
within the room, we watch
her sleep, all day now,
motionless on the narrow
cot where we gather
to keep vigil over
her shortening breaths
become gasps,
we hold hands.
bubbles on the deep silent water
I hold my breath, dive
the pressure filling my ears
down past the warmed surface
to a cool layer, the sun
sparkling like shards overhead
but I only know my lungs
blood flowing inside, waiting
waiting to surface again, release
Now I can hear the silence.
I'm alone again
it's night, the dream
returns, I rise and the clock
noiselessly flashes
the minutes turning over
sheets rustle against
my thighs, up my arms
the house undisturbed
street lamp glowing
on a deathly lawn, silent.
On being broken—
we are mostly bits & pieces
of ideas, partial reflections
of a mother, a child, detritus
of a chaotic room with a TV
blaring, old potato chip bags,
dirty laundry, bread crumbs
the dog kicking in its sleep
we are formed of fragments
alone, solitary strands like
green algae in a slow stream
or a clump of fur torn off
a road-killed rabbit, glued
back a little by hope or
despair, we don't know which
and we step forward expecting
all our pieces to follow
our shadow— when they don't
we blame our family, our job
the weather, anything but
the universe that broke apart
in one moment and has been
distancing itself ever since.
