If walls had ears by Sheila Jacob

I am not a silent poet

We witness in silent ways, swallow voices

into our fabric of stone and mud and dust,

where else do you think the day’s sound

lives once airborne, does it fade like silks,

grow colourless on tapestry for the altar’s

frontal, pure linen for chasubles and copes?

(Fine threads on a chasuble where a needle

stabbed; over, around, tracings of smothered

light, lost resurrections, the chalice brimful.)

We bear the weight of cries from a child’s

sickbed, a woman’s rage;spiders hear it, too,

snag a thread of pain, weave it into corners.

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