What She Left Unsaid

How it felt when a red grape
burst beneath her teeth, a sharp,
sour blessing, little kick of pleasure

shadowing her face,
or the room’s heat, furnace
clicking off and on, bare branches

scratching at windows,
a stillness on this street without
cars. She wouldn’t speak

of the day her hands fluttered
off her wrists, wayward birds
dusting a gray hill with feathers

and filth, or the night her tongue
burned and slithered from her
mouth as if the earth had turned

too cold and darkness beckoned
with its heat.  She left those words
buried in her chest, locked

in the small safe she had bolted
next to her heart, that half-crazed
organ beating its wild way toward

lightness and flight as each small
moment gathered to create this life
she owned: silent, secret, unafraid.

If you have any comments on this  poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.