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

but know:

our poem is a box of silence.

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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.
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