Trumpet Screams told to be silent
So we sit silent
We sit silent under the clouds in sepia tones
—it all looks sickly and yellow
Overlooking rock-framed lakes
And you have no wisdom
You have desperation
You have your hands
Your hands are clawing from riverstreams and grabbing onto anything good
Good until it drowns
Good until it drowns into misery
I am walking along the rocks
Along the riverstream
And I am confident in my balance
And you
With hands clawing from riverstreams are splashing the edges
Trying to make me slip
And you claim no action
There are trumpet screams trying to scare your hands back underwater
Back to the beds of riverstreams
Back to your own sloth
Back to your own idleness and inaction
And the trumpet screams from my body are no longer silent
No longer waterlogged
No longer dripping
I will hop rock paths across riverstreams
Rank with algae and leeches
And swim in the peaceful lake it flows into
Swim naked and happy and good
Claire Emery is a poet and essayist from the mountains of northern Arizona. When she is not writing, she can be found reading in a local coffee shop, knitting, or skating around in a roller derby.
