CALL ME BELOVED

I tell myself as often as I tell others
that the silence is voluntary, the gray
threads in my hair aren’t new –
I’m not special and my burden
isn’t any heavier. truth is sharp,
clear and sometimes cold, like
pressing your face against
a pane of glass.

the temptation is to turn away,
to try not to look, but out the windows
buds are blossoming on the trees –
a slender branch erupting out
the stub of an amputated limb
on the bradford pear out front,
because they cannot give up.