Twenty.


Orange enters the green
crawls to the edge of a leaf
until it becomes fire,
a word falling
from the fingers of trees.

There are always two searching in the night.
It is easy to pretend
what is offered is not hollow;
a sound hiding in your hand.

I want to say it is a wing, the touch of a feather
after years of calling

but it is more
of an absence, color of leaves,
green, to orange, to brown
then dust.

My father believed us holy,
taught his daughters to be afraid
not of men in cars or guns or rape
but of silence. For days
he would sit with a question,
hold it over us
as if it were a knife.

Tonight we will not speak

now place your hand here,
now here

explain with your tongue graves
the holes we dig to love
tell me
where will our bodies lie -- who will be the bird,
the sheep?

-- T.E. Ballard