Hush By David St. John

for my son

The way a tired Chippewa woman
Who’s lost a child gathers up black feathers,   
Black quills & leaves
That she wraps & swaddles in a little bale, a shag   
Cocoon she carries with her & speaks to always   
As if it were the child,
Until she knows the soul has grown fat & clever,   
That the child can find its own way at last;   
Well, I go everywhere
Picking the dust out of the dust, scraping the breezes   
Up off the floor, & gather them into a doll   
Of you, to touch at the nape of the neck, to slip   
Under my shirt like a rag—the way
Another man’s wallet rides above his heart. As you   
Cry out, as if calling to a father you conjure   
In the paling light, the voice rises, instead, in me.   
Nothing stops it, the crying. Not the clove of moon,
Not the woman raking my back with her words. Our letters   
Close. Sometimes, you ask
About the world; sometimes, I answer back. Nights   
Return you to me for a while, as sleep returns sleep   
To a landscape ravaged
& familiar. The dark watermark of your absence, a hush.

Note to Poetry Out Loud students: This poem begins with an epigraph that must be recited. Omitting the epigraph will affect your accuracy score.
David St. John, “Hush” from Study for the World’s Body: Selected Poems (New York: HarperCollins, 1994). Copyright © 1994, 2005 by David St. John. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Source: Study for the World's Body: New and Selected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1994)

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