A voice says, “Cry out!”
And I said, “What shall I cry?”
—Isaiah 40.6
Anything.
Deepest hope,
favorite song,
moan of secret grief.
Glottal stop of Ferguson,
strangled cry of Syria,
rage of Palestine, the border fence.
Rising tremolo,
beyond sad or glad,
of slaves already singing.
In your throat, your gut,
little pieces, syllables,
one or two, of alleluia.
Let the cry out of its cage,
your silence roar,
what was muffled, speak:
oceans beneath your voice,
tongues beneath your tongue,
ages longing to be heard,
while grasses fade,
and our horrors pass,
that voice that was always here,
always crying out,
voicing through closed throats,
opening the way.
December 5, 2014