Russian Bell 1 comments

Anya Silver

I’d like to scale the cord
           in the vibrating dark,
                     to find the source of all sound,
to translate the frequencies.
           The way, as a child, I could
                     hang onto a knot of rope
and kick myself back from a wall
           into the arc and blur
                     of summer air—that’s the prayer
I want. To open my mouth
           like a window, to ring
                     with my Mother’s voice.
And my heart: like a shattered
           peony, musky petal after petal
                     unpeeling, pealing.