The answer
was scratched on a
crumpled leaf caught
in a mid-march draft,
read once by a woman who
barely whispered its terms,
twice
by a man with a
mouth full of
marbles. It was
etched on the driftwood
that slipped out to sea;
crammed in a rusted tin
box then mislaid
below floorboards.
It was stashed in a closet,
concealed with
sheetrock
and spackle,
splashed on the
walls and repainted
an oil-based white.
You can search
the negative space
around and between
for weeks without end
and still
never see it.
The rising moon
won’t toss you
a clue,
and for better or worse,
the headstones aren’t
talking.
Previously appeared in Eye On Life Magazine
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