Incommunicado
by Keith O'Shaughnessy
II. Final Blow
It is impossible to say
Which is the deader art,
Love or the lovesong.
There is no way to tell
Which was the harder crossing,
The border or the line.
Who knows at what dead loss
A man comes to a dead stop,
Keeps dead quiet in dead calm.
But each morning he gets up
A little later to wash his face
And stroll down to the plaza
(A man must at least feign
Dignity), because each night
He stays out a little longer
At the café, sipping tequila
And watching the dancers,
Because every day the news
At the village posada
Is the same: no word.
No matter. There it is still
The dead of winter, when
Falling snowflakes blank-
Et the Sun, here the dead
Of night, when black-
Outs blot the stars, so until
Word comes, let there
Be music. Singing sounds
In the plaza, dancing
Figures at the café—dead
Airs in dead heat, dead
Weight at dead center—like dead
Letters in dead
Soldiers—dead
Wood on dead
Seas—delivered dead
On arrival, to dead
Zones, full of dead
Lines gone dead
Wrong, dead
Spaces left dead
Empty: dead
In the water, dead
To the world. And still, dead
Certain, over a dead
Hand's dead
Body, under a dead
Drunk's dead
Eye—dead
Tired, dead
Asleep—the dead
Beat, dead
Even, plays dead
On, with the chapel's dead
Ringers, to the dead
Last, dead
Set on its dead
End. So a dead
Language's dying
Is its—the—
Final word,
The parting breath's
Last gasp: dead
Silence.
Featured Works
Poetry
Message in a Bottle,
Incommunicado, and
Il Mio Tesoretto
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