Speak

Speak

(“Speak out for those who cannot speak, for the rights of all the destitute.”  Proverbs 28:31)

The silent store their aches and stains while
the babble hoards gold and shallow paintings
of their pretense of justice; write books, sign books,
speak at banquets, repeat themselves and are talked about

In every self-respecting conversation in and out of tradition foyers
and emerging porches.

The silent hide their bruises, the mute (abused for each question)
mark the days with passive phrases they have forgotten to repeat;
but know by heart the threats like a three-chord hook on the radio.
Stab them and they barely sigh.

The few words they finally say; with fever rising from throat to
cheeks to eyes to brow, are not to sway, somehow, the powerful.
The short sentences, unpretentious, are the flumes of steam from
a pressure cooker’s only solution for survival.

The righteous machine, maintained and oiled, digs for reasons
in the stomach of the hurting who have died already inside.
In holy metronome the go through the motions, assign
daily prayer potions and leave, two by two, for downtown
and brunch

To talk about themselves and why the silent
never ask to join them for lunch.