loss makes us mute, dries the ink
in our pens, slaver and sense
from stilled lips

batters the lifeboat of words
we cling to, pitches us stone-heavy
to the hushed hollow of deep
until –

our mouths make the ‘o’ of holy
hatchlings raising beaks to be fed
the circle of sorrow and seeking
the tremulous trill of choir boys
until –

morning rises and unmuzzles us
unknots tongues, smooths the stutter
of grief, slow-walks us to song
reminds us of lapsed language
until –

we are fluent again, aflow
with note and the quake of being
newly awake – rolling worlds of vowel
and consonant behind clenched teeth

the tender ‘o’ widening to song –
diminuendo to crescendo – silver plate
of offering, a note of lamentation
held and released