Nana Nightingale

Originally published by The Cadaverine.

Nana Nightingale
Rebekah Miron

I can’t steady your hand, nor
graze the frayed edges of your
midnight madness. I can’t wake
you from dreaming or call a cease-
fire, deliver your letters nor live in your
shaken daylight. In the mornings,
you tremble for dawn like you’ve
caught fire at the windowsill. Your
tongue moves maroon & the words won’t
s y n t h e s i s e; tiny fish in tide,
each time I’ve tried to try to try to try
and talk out loud for both of us – I never do.
Instead, I recognise your grief speak
in the empty shapes my mouth makes
always trying its best to articulate –
you have taught me a silent kind of terror.

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