Let The Silence Be Violent Until It Heals You
There is a metal bench in the middle of a park.
The kind weathered by heat
It sits as an island, shining like
poolside tile where
someone's daughter might rest
and dangle her feet over the edge
and into the water underneath
(if you can imagine
the cool blue the way she might).
Stick figure legs poking out
beneath a toddler's sundress
and kicking the air.
Soak your bones.
One day, a man gathered
all of his baggage and
tucked it into his chest cavity
and sought out that park bench and,
walked straight across the lawn
to sit on the island and weigh it down.
When he realized what he'd done,
he checked his feet
for scarring on his soul
and took the time to contemplate how
hopping from one stick on the ground
to a pave stone
to a railing to
until you get to where you're going
was a good game as a kid,
but less conducive for someone
so exhausted by
that lake of fire.
Here, though, from a city park bench,
he feels the burden shift
and sees the ground for what it is.
Let the silence be violent until it
Over the years,
that metal bench has endured
the weight of one thousand
(which all of them are,
regardless of age,
they just forget it along the way).
The paint is chipped
and the chrome beneath it
shines through a little more now
than it had in the past,
but if anything,
you'd probably just call it character.
The scratches and the graffiti
resemble loose skin, slightly,
like a smokers sag,
or – just – life,
ringing the truth in.
Thanks for reading, friends.