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Claudia Schmidt
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Longing
What is unsaid fills the tiny spaces between syllables,
Insinuates itself after commas and semicolons,
At the upturned sentence end, before the fall of consonant
And at the rounding of the vowel
What is unsaid roars against the intake of breath
After every third or fourth word, and recedes
For a paragraph or so
Until it cannot bear its unsaying
Then seeks a portal from its own confinement
Into the rattle-a-tat-tat of the saying and the said
Out of the simple longing
To be with its own kind
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