We Have Nothing to Say Anymore
In dreams, I’m still decoding
the jagged ending, chipped and sharp.
In so small a room that hope is
the spectral hand of could have been
breaks every tiny bone of was.
Escaping you, my bully,
I am buttoned for my future with gold coins
and carry secrets seamed in my old coat
but I must travel circumspect.
I must remember always
there is ice
beneath September’s green.
Yes, let the words between us come
like friendly neighbors
our poem is a box of silence.
Beth Spencer currently lives in Minneapolis, MN, loves travel, and is a notable example of the persistence of hope over experience. She has been messing about with poetry since fifth grade when she won a “Why I Like to Read Good Books” contest by submitting her essay in poetic form.