SOUNDS.................................................................................................................................................................WILSON ROBERTS

Sounds

Poem by Wilson Roberts

Sounds within a house change when the last of the dead are taken; echoes of dust settling air drying, cracking: emptiness has a resonance. That is why we point mutely at paintings, lamps, furniture, small things favored by memory; whisper when we must speak: the brass mortar and pestle, the painting, cows grazing, the cut glass sherry decanter.

Words profane that holy moment, instant, in truth, when the dead are again present, the dust suspended, the air moist; we see them move the pestle, straighten the painting, for they have been taken quickly, leave slowly, and are gone only after we mete out those favored things, load our cars with boxes, knowing upon what mantles and shelves, tabletops and walls we will place them. We go to our homes and behind us the dust settles, the air dries, and outside the house the tap tap tapping of a sign being placed at the edge of the lawn by the street.