Break not this heart tomorrow,
the day of my father’s death;
let his last breathing,
the final anger against prayers
unanswered, never heard
be far from me and let the life
he lived enough testimony
of an eternity that cannot leave
here and now. I have his hands,
my sister says; his eyes and heart
and trust. What more could
a son ask for? To hear him
call my name once more.
To answer, “Yes.”
-Byron Hoot
I have made a treaty
with silence,
terms to be
drawn up,
mitigated by stillness.
The only thing for sure:
no signatures necessary.
The real needs nothing
signed, the understanding
a sufficient bond as good
as, maybe better than,
any name inked: the naming
of things always inherently
somewhat incorrect. Haven’t
you noticed your name called
and the hesitation on the verge
of inability to answer?
Besides, what is there
to remember or forget
in silence and stillness?
The other reason I like
this contract: it can’t
be misplaced, it’s with
me always, conditions met.
-Byron Hoot
