A Whispanaut

This isn't quite where I want it yet

A whispanaut folds at the knees

in your haloed outline

He takes no for an answer

and repeats back only

yes, yes, yes, yes

A whispanaut is unworthy

of eye contact, unworthy

of air enough to run

and enough space to stand

so he folds at the knees

with palms pressed to his

only friend, the cold

and familiar floor

A whispanaut never falls

from his seat, the cushion humps

of his calves and the back brace

of his un-shoed black feet

propped up with muscle memory

and rust-locked toes

The thought of erosion

excites the whispanaut, though

he still practices

diligent obedience

A whispanaut is not a man

who thinks he is a man

but more as an ivy-

cloaked statue in a secret garden

kneeling to brush

off the dust that years have

collected as a gift at his feet

A whispanaut cannot speak

of men as statues because statues

crumble under their own

perfection, and statues

cannot speak

or breathe; they can only watch

and listen as weeds rapidly

advance to hide the prayers

that were once uttered beneath

their black feet

A whispanaut waits

for a gardener, for a

while, then forgets for whom

he waits. A girl who passes by

kneels like a mirror to

stare into the pearl eyes

of the whispanaut. Why

must she kneel? He wonders

if she might clip leaves

from his crackled limbs

to pull him from

his shaded tomb

He wonders if a flighted

bird might spend a moment

with him, bathing

in the month-old rainwater

that has turned a murky green

in his raised, cupped hands.

Here, he says, this is all

I have left

for you. Do you want it?

yes

yes

yes

yes

Reviews

[victoria]

fine fine lines here, your words give this lowly statue a beautiful stature.