CERTAINTY

perhaps

for a few years

we all remain still

with the fisherman gazing at the swimming serenity

of the waters that have held beautiful faces

before they swallowed a small sea

because of the others who now stand

awkwardly at first

hands unmoving bats

and balls reflecting a darkness

that travels to their panting mouths like a cough

though there is no sound

escaping into the sky to greet the trash-filled birds

who too know no noise

but instead see the fishermen without fish

and the waters without waves

just stillness siring lives that will rebirth the womb

from the earth that isn’t churning

for fear of creating whispering wind

that will remind the woman of the dress she wears

that could easily have been armor or rags or nothing

which some would say in other circumstances

she is already guilty of

like the sun eventually when day’s decease

between her yellow legs

where she once was a grain of a child too

that would cry cultivation

except for in these few years

where the baby looks up wordlessly

not owning one thing

including itself nameless but together

with all healing from all

that was said needlessly

like a line too long

or a poem too shor