The Black Boot, The River, The Burning House
Christopher Kennedy

Here the silence of trees is louder than God and the mute girl has wandered away. Here, the black boot, the river, the burning house. The willows bent over in the storm like weary travelers. The pack of dogs asleep on the doorstep. The noise in the basement. The hollowed out gourd we used as a pipe. The police car in the driveway at night like a spaceship. The mute girl returned to her father, who paced in the kitchen while we watched through the window. The moon, beautiful as ivory, and hidden behind the clouds. The story we were told and the truth we knew. The mute girl's hands as she signed. The way her fingers screamed.

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