Quiet Longing
for my daughters
A skulk of foxes trails the fence,
too sly for traps, too dull for sense.
They sniff the wind, then slip away—
I stay behind. I always stay.
They’ve got their cunning, I’ve got fear.
They vanish fast, I disappear.
But not the same. They make a plan.
I only hide because I can.
I keep my silence in a cage,
call it sorrow, call it rage.
A skulk, a murder, a buzz, a thread—
I walk with ghosts, speak to the dead.
They never answer, never stay,
they flicker once, then fade away.
But I still whisper like they might—
out here tryin’ t’ make things right.
A murder circles overhead,
dark confessions, things I said.
They cause a ruckus, won’t let go—
the past won’t die, it just echoes.
I fake a shrug, pretend to grin,
but every flap drums up the din.
They always know just where to land—
right on my back, right in my hands.
I keep my silence in a cage,
call it sorrow, call it rage.
A skulk, a murder, a buzz, a thread—
I walk with ghosts, speak to the dead.
They never answer, never stay,
they flicker once, then fade away.
But I still whisper like they might—
out here tryin’ t’ make things right.
A parliament, it lines the wire,
stoic judges; moonlit choir.
They blink like they already knew—
the things I lost, the things I rue.
They don’t forgive, they just observe,
and chart the path I never served.
No wisdom here, no second chance—
just quiet eyes and consequence.
I keep my silence in a cage,
call it sorrow, call it rage.
A skulk, a murder, a buzz, a thread—
I walk with ghosts, speak to the dead.
They never answer, never stay,
they flicker once, then fade away.
But I still whisper like they might—
out here tryin’ t’ make things right.
A memory of elephants slow,
each step a name I used to know.
They carry time in every stride—
the ones I loved, the ones who died.
Their shadows stretch across my chest,
a heavy grace, a kind of rest.
I walk beside them when I can—
the past still breathing, man to man.
A business of bees stitched into my seams,
buzzing with all my half-dead dreams.
Honey and hurt, they hum in rows—
I bled for beauty no one knows.
Thread through denim, tight and rough,
the kind of love that’s not enough.
But still I wear it, still I tread-
a swarm of things I never said.
I keep my silence in a cage,
call it sorrow, call it rage.
A skulk, a murder, a buzz, a thread—
I walk with ghosts, speak to the dead.
They never answer, never stay,
they flicker once, then fade away.
But I still whisper like they might—
out here tryin’ t’ make things right.
An ache for daughters fills the air,
soft as a breath, too sharp to bear.
I see their faces in the leaves—
then lose them in the murmured breeze.
If I could speak, if I were brave,
I’d tell them all the love I save.
But for now, I wait and write—
out here tryin’ t’ make things right.