Marcus Wicker
The mute boy piano
virtuoso in the deep
stone well.
That single-body
cold each day.
That, nights, he thinks
he shrieks.
That moonless dark
blotting out a mouth
hippo-wide. Hole
puncher is to paper
as who is to poem?
Easier magnifying
glass than mirror.
O, the things unseen:
enflamed epiglottis,
small busted voice
box, symphonies
scratched on stone
well lines—more
loose leaf, really,
than ledger.
This void—that boy
is or could be you—
depending on the eye.
Unless, you’ve never
longed—to be seen
or heard so bad. That,
nights, you cave—
cancel the self.
Say it sad and plain:
that this poem
is a void.
That this well is
as far as your voice
has ever carried.