Tell Them

If people ask you,
tell them that I mean it
every sound that stamps my tongue
silent vowels, unstressed words, consonants
voiced and voiceless all the same

Tell them in an octave that used to know
a quaver, but rarely tremors now
the fault lines in another state
aftershocks distilled to weightless air

Tell them that the hurricanes
of my grieving have turned to gritty rage
still powerful enough to topple trees
but without tears, mold or waves

Tell them that I love the persimmon,
the burnt sienna of fading starless skies
that our suspended secrets hide at dusk
swallowed by the ebony empty night

Tell them come for dinner
or for dessert and wine
I won’t scrub and mop and clean
but they are welcome all the same