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Silt
By
Inta Ezergailis
What settles in this fountain
of age is silt of pain,
the helpless urge to please, the sycophant
smile of exile piled on top.
Most of all fear in every pore. Born of it,
the cramped grasp on dress and hair and
where are you going when will you be back
are all the doors locked, all the windows,
I will pay do you need money. Money
alone seems to her a lever
that still may show the world she’s here
though too too old. And she has very
little, not enough to pry open a slit in
the closed eyes of strangers.
More and more after, now, all are strangers.
What’s in the silt—was always there,
but now essential, dry, exposed. Gone
the moisture of long laughter
the oil of playfulness. If I could
press it into ink, reconstitute
it just long enough to anoint
the corner of your mouth
into an easy unforced smile.
© Inta Ezergailis 2009
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