WHAT IT CAN'T HAVE
Sage Ravenwood

Deafness has its own silence
Not the 'I wish I could
turn the world off for a minute' quietus
This silence breathes inside
a bird's wings in flight
Beneath ants carrying a desiccated spider
With each gentle sway of branches
dervish leaves whirling freefall
Frost crackling beneath paws
The delicate harpsichord inside
spider webs' plucked dew beads
A wind's song tugging hair and clothes
Reeds drumstick knocking
This quiet is heavy breathing
on the back of your neck
Pinpricked emotions knife blading
epidermis fine hair like a razor
Finger speaking to hearing eyes
Vibrating echoes dancing a skin tango
Sonance skiing the slopes of touch
A silence so loud thunder quakes
Quiet is a mouse clamped in a cat's jaw
A body doesn't know a moment of peace
Noise thrums and pulls
at what it can't have






Sage Ravenwood is a deaf Cherokee woman residing in upstate NY with her two rescue dogs, Bjarki and Yazhi, and her one-eyed cat Max. She is an outspoken advocate against animal cruelty and domestic violence. Her work can be found in Glass Poetry - Poets Resist, The Temz Review, Contrary, perhappened, trampset, and Sundress Press anthology - The Familiar Wild: On Dogs and Poetry. Forthcoming from Grain Magazine.



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