Deliver Me
All the noises of spoken words,
the creaking house and worst
my talking memories distract
me when I’m seeking silence.
I try a deep cleansing breath
and close my eyes
trying to erase, little by
little, each object of memory,
Seeking silence from what is
left.
The closer I get to that state
of peace, the louder the silence grows.
I become aware of a drum beat,
the regular thumping of my heart
that holds me
between awake and deathly sleep.
I focus on it and slowly come to
synchrony with the beat,
that falls with my breathing falls, yet that
slowing always reveals
the old ringing, a faint, ever
present insect
somewhere deep within my ears,
singing in a tinny, electronic
high pitch.
I wrestle with it, hoping to
grow inured to its sound
but it remains and the
effort that only makes me aware
of the house as it begins to speak.
The gurgle of the refrigerant in the refrigerator.
Footsteps. Voices outside
somewhere,
too low to understand but not
too quiet to hear.
These sounds are all around, fighting
and taunting me.
I consider abandoning this futile
struggle
as each new sound yet another in
the chorus.
Finally it is just me and the
high-pitched singing,
some insect rubbing its wings
together, signaling for a mate.
And then slowly everything yields
to silence,
everything but the roar of
unvoiced thoughts.
Can you think without talking,
even to yourself?
The voices must be like the
sound of Barth’s secret prayer
that echoes in the halls of
Heaven, deafening the angels.
It is that fear of silence I
hear,
Fear that I’ll bend down too low
in abject humility,
with face prostrated so hard
against the floor and hear His voice,
His agony of silence, forsaken
and abandoned
save by the few women, and God.
That silence shook the
foundations of the world:
The voice of silence saying,
“Get up and feed my sheep.”
Henry Paris copyright 2011
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