Angel of the Mourning

Just call me Anna. You’ll kill me otherwise. If you try to speak any more at me you’ll lose whatever thin thread of infinity we have between us in compromise.

It’s better sometimes with fewer words; that keeps the doors all open; that keeps the worlds unfrozen, unobserved cuz still indirectly woven in possibility, unknown.

But even in a moan, just as with a groan, any circumscribing uttered tone, that lets the innards loose and in my direction for me you choose—in that even I am become stone.

So leave my name alone.

I’d rather sit on Medusa’s throne.

But oh I wish you’d try.

Keep looking, won’t you? An eye for an eye, right—

Oh, I see,

I know there’s something more than me,

For you too.

Silence doesn’t become you.

Nothing becomes nothing without words, our revenue and toll, our price for what’s always long-overdue:

Life doesn’t start until called.

That’s all.

So don’t speak me until I’ve done the same.

I see now that fear is the name of the game.

If I speak.

If I speak,

How holds the peace?

If I speak.

If I speak,

Will safety cease.

If I speak.

If I speak

If I do not speak,

If,

Do not speak.

Just give me a beat,

And when the morning comes,

Call me Anna.