Sun's Highest Point
I imagine, at times. I fill the large bucket
with only my words. I keep throwing the out
the bucket. It never fills. The noonday sun
pulsates into prayer beads of sweat strung
like a thorns along my forehead. Alone,
the salt forms a crystal coaster along my forehead.
Time has past and my words are funny, unheard.
Without a listener, my words keep gathering
in stagnant pools throughout my life. I keep going
and talking at those men: husbands and lovers
who could not hear me. I talk when no one is there.
I talk because talk is cheap and I am poor,
and can afford my words. The rest talk behind
my back and in front of me. I have descend so far
in their eyes, I will not listen to their vacuous
words any longer. I keep talking. I bath
in empty words—mine and theirs. Then,
I listen to my life flowing out of stranger's
mouth. Because he spoke, my words
gather weight. My towns unites,
and the son goes higher.