48.1 - Winter 2019

Page 116

Leap In every womb there is a baby. In every baby, a womb. In every stone there is a stone. In every stone, a stone. On every bridge there is a jumper. In every jumper, a word. When words fail to come for a season—seasons stretching into seasons—there is no choice but to look away from the baby, the stone, the bridge with its suicidal poems. Language stops its pandering. Silence arrives in a cab, pays its fare, and rings the bell. In every womb there is a baby. This is not true. There is no baby. There is only a stone. You can lift the stone and throw it in the river that flows beneath the bridge. Do not follow the stone in. Leap in another direction. Yesterday I wrote a song in C Major and played it, as if I’d never heard it before.

POETRY | 107

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