The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
I grow weary of these distinctions
between pale and shadow.
Burgeoning forth like a morose masquerade,
lilies strewn about as sad, dying leaves,
we are no longer immune to silence.
No one hears these murmured words,
not even the rapturous soil.
Fingers point everywhere but backwards,
where they belong. It was our own doing,
this fragmentation we became.
Heave your stones
toward granite headboards, if you must,
but do not diminish my gathering of bouquets
for the still breathing, for the as yet unborn.
They need ferocious petals more than crumbs of earth.
The final damned real estate can wait its turn;
I refuse to sing this lie.
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