Saturday
Nov252017

A Mouth with Nothing to Say

Peter LaBerge


 

Decatur, Georgia

 

For all its knowing, the moon watched

the van of brothers as they drove

 

full-speed into the estuary. Georgia

spat them out with the same mouth it spat

 

all sin out. For months, the moon opened

like a mouth with nothing to say—even once

 

the brothers drowned & the black bells

still declined to ring. This structure bearing

 

the lord's name, it was not made

to acknowledge our impolite queer grief—

 

so each brother built his own miniature church

inside his body, where no god would think

 

to look. For years, devout—carving names

into moonlit linoleum until each boy was

 

immortal. Then, prayers & white rocks

sunk to the sky's floor. Pew-locked mothers

 

threaded the peculiar relations of their sons. Until

summer bruised, they let the wind make birds

 

of their letters. Outside,  Aidan  Scott  Michael  Kieron

a family of foals tumored a field with black hooves

 

until the dew settled & the moon dropped

each name into the ghost-country of its mouth.