Sometimes there is nothing to say. The storm
which blew all day is finished; dinner was eaten,
the dishes washed. Around me, the detritus
of work; a pencil with its blunted lead, a blank
and expressionless phone, earbuds dangling
from the jack. Writing, I scribbled Jeremiah,
The weeping prophet. Imagined him on Bourke St,
masked but after curfew. God placed the words
in his mouth, but not in mine. Bread and oil
is all I’m given; salt only on feast days.
Oblivion waits under the turned-back quilt;
quotidian dreams begin their slideshow. Only
towards the edge of morning, still under sleep’s
unbroken surface, comes the prophet lamenting,
an almond in his open palm. This too is detritus.
The tree cannot be forced to fruit. Silence
makes its own poem; the hush before first
birdcry at the approaching dawn.
Melissa Curran is a poet living in Sydney, Australia. She has an interest in literacy, and a commitment to the lyric poem.