Romana Iorga
This Silence Is the Largest I Could Find
It has no doors, no windows.
Yes, you may crawl inside it, but you must dig.
I don’t know how long it will take.
What spade? Use your fingers, your toes.
Your teeth, if you have to. The soil
is bitter, don’t swallow. Wait long enough
and you’ll find silence sweet.
When good things finally come, which is
what true silence offers, you’ll know
you are in. I mean, you’ll find yourself
silent. You won’t need any praise.
You won’t need any people. You’ll be
content you are there, alone, at the center
of silence, where the passage
of time and the passage of your one
real life are like details in a renaissance
painting. Where you watch a slow
barge being towed by a horse in a silent
movie and recognize your own
muddy thought. You’ll see how infinitely
forgetful you are. How forgettable.
You’ll watch a forest grow at the edge
of your silence, its roots anchored
in language. Each silent leaf,
an unspoken word. Each silent bird,
a song fluttering in your throat.
Romana Iorga is the author of Temporary Skin (Glass Lyre Press, 2024) and a woman made entirely of air (Dancing Girl Press, 2024). Her poems have appeared in various journals, including New England Review, Lake Effect, The Nation, as well as on her poetry blog at clayandbranches.com.
