Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Cadences

Angry voices
downstairs
echo
to the top of the house
and this locked
child's bedroom.
I can't
pick out nuance
or hear clear words
but there's no mistaking
the raw cadences of hate
pushing their way up
hissing
like molten rock
through
spaces behind thin walls
furnace ducts
cracks
in doors
and floors.
The furnace starts
rush of forced air
masking for a moment
those angry rhythms
But I know that it
will stop again soon
and they won't.

4 comments:

Fingers said...

Shucks
This is so beautifully written.
The form has completely moulded the matter.

Anonymous said...

I remember this. Thankfully, not too many times.

C said...

I think we all remember these times. The trick is...to not repeat them.

Beautiful.

coyote said...

Yes; I think the trick, for me, is to inhabit the memory long enough to get the poem right, then put it back where it belongs, far away from present life.