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.