By: Brylle Bautista Tabora
after Donald Hall
And as I begin to write this poem
the trees outside turn into burning spires,
the mist takes the shape of a lonely man, and
frogs all over imitate the cawing of birds.
Someone, not long ago, told me you cannot hide a poet.
Perhaps it is true that we do our best effort
to dock the image of a dead dog leaping over,
that we are always wary that someone with a gun
always takes his aim at us. There is no way around it:
You cannot simply walk through the maple door
and think as if nothing had happened, or that you cannot
simply barge in a room and tell the mother that all her children
have drowned. This is almost impossible.
Glück, tell me, did you hear your name being called out?
The water must have drowned all the voices.
All we know is, whatever happens will keep on happening.
Perhaps I can write a poem or two about it, perhaps
I can take a bullet into the eye to see things differently.