Lexicon of the Silenced
by M. Allshouse
Dear Heavenly Father,
am I allowed to speak?
I open your scriptures
but I fear I’ve forgotten how to read.
The words lie still,
refusing to resurrect in my mouth.
I cannot comprehend
the misalignment of your verses and my need.
What was meant to save me
feels like silence wearing sacred robes.
Dear Heavenly Father,
do you see me from behind your veil of light?
I fear you were the thread that stitched my mouth shut—
basked in silence,
held in hollow love.
You handed me reverence
and called it enough.
Dear Heavenly Father,
are you listening?
I’m crying out in anguish,
but I fear I don’t know the language you perceive.
I never learned to speak in tongues.
Only in tremble.
Only in ache.
Only in the lexicon of grief.
Lexicon of the Silenced
by M. Allshouse
Dear Heavenly Father,
am I allowed to speak?
I open your scriptures
but I fear I’ve forgotten how to read.
The words lie still,
refusing to resurrect in my mouth.
I cannot comprehend
the misalignment of your verses and my need.
What was meant to save me
feels like silence wearing sacred robes.
Dear Heavenly Father,
do you see me from behind your veil of light?
I fear you were the thread that stitched my mouth shut—
basked in silence,
held in hollow love.
You handed me reverence
and called it enough.
Dear Heavenly Father,
are you listening?
I’m crying out in anguish,
but I fear I don’t know the language you perceive.
I never learned to speak in tongues.
Only in tremble.
Only in ache.
Only in the lexicon of grief.