It is a trifling discomfort to know
that somewhere, out there,
in the great wide world,
you are still alive and able,
at will,
to speak.

Would that I could silence you
till thy kingdom come, you’d
be as silent as death, or
the warning letter that fell
from the post box yesterday morning.

Your shoes would be buried
in a square you’d hated
with a shrine for all you stood against
erected atop their grave.

I would dance there, most nights,
and conjure curses against your
Family Name,
with a book of strong words in one hand
and a bottle of strong spirits in the other.

But you walk still,
and breathe and speak
and though it is a discomfort,
’tis a trifle and nothing more.