Late Night Elegy

I scream without sound
and what I say is this:

I am the cobalt blue bud vase
on your window shelf, devoid

of buds; the yellow dandelion plucked
from the yard, invading pervasive green;

the dying bleeding heart in the shade
garden, my time over for a season.

I am the cat’s fur, smooth and silky, hairs
flying in all directions as you stroke Me.

I am the collared puppy, making my way
despite the obstacles, to relieve myself.

I am the rice pilaf, fresh oregano and chives
sprinkling my body, ready to be eaten.

I am the load of laundry souring in the wash
tub in the basement, waiting to be unloaded.

I am the last puff of your cigarette, the end
now a punitive reminder of your transgressions.

I am the ocean at night, lapping still at the edges
where children and grown-ups alike played

for a few hours beneath a blazing sun. I am the guitar
in the backseat of the car, needing a new string,

waiting for the touch of your fingers, for the blood
of your fingers, for the life of your fingers.

I am screaming with no sound. I am the knowledge
that most screams, despite their urgency, and in light

of their need to be known, are never heard.