Silence Is Thirsty Poem by John Courtney

We reference liars. It begins again
with removal looking for either a
pill or birds to steal with stilling
dust. The vanity often bends to fit
a voice consumed by either a pill or
the posture of distance, but distance,
such as women, lays flat in the eyes
of memory. Our great mountain being
no more than a silent stone wanting
to be tossed, an underground of bones
licked clean by the shadows of rats,
speeches from an evil light manage
to vein themselves in the cruelty
of a falling leaf, but libraries are
made to burn fast and wars are played
to keep us lonely, the unknown miracle
being the woman. How she bends the sun
to fit her face, an iron flame drizzled
on the remaining mind, an immovable
kiss to identify the sinking distance.

The furthest rock no more than a quiet
mountain immovable by anything other
than vision removed, a mother who gently
pulls the stinger from her child's flesh,
battered beauty that allows herself to
still be seen, custodian of the thrashing
masculine earth, stone waves of sharp water
pushing the heart through its barbaric
appetite. How she stands firmly red in
blue reputation, how she listens intently
to liars, how flawless heat dances
mechanically alone and butterflies teach
fireflies to swim into a highway's mouth,
to splash and spark naked into pages of honesty,
to love again the embryonic quality of darkness.

We walk to her endlessly and arrive
from her endfully, the distance behind
lays flat in the eyes of memory, suitcases
filling time and pockets spilling dreams.
If we are lucky there will be distance
left after we've exhausted the lies we tell
to ourselves, the great mountains will fly
and the bones will scream, we will hold the
hand of a shadow made of pure fire, the woman
we seek will no longer dance alone, we will
not need our eyes, we will be buried by love
and with no reference know the truth of beauty.