The mute boy
as slender as a willow sapling
looks at the world
with eyes big and bright by
light intake and color.
He does not look at the
world as others look. He looks
in his own way
His world is a
world of maenad laughter. His world
is a world of confusion; a
world he can touch. His is a world
to be known by taste.
Sometimes something rises up
from somewhere inside and
becomes a sudden urge
wordlessly, unthinkingly from the
threat of adolescence, to run
into the world of surfaces,
crossings and confusion.
The mute boy
has no place to run to.
The mute boy
has nowhere to go.
Sometimes something rises up
from somewhere inside, wordless
throbbing, total
and becomes suffering.
He sits on the stone walkway
of the grandfather garden, his
head between his knees.
The mute boy’s tears
fall like rain
watering the soft roses
of his fair cheeks.
David Spaenberg is a poet
SIGN UP FOR COUNTERCURRENTS DAILY NEWS LETTER
