If I drip like snow from the roof who will know?
When I throw stones at dead men who will know?
The mother’s ghost rests in a razor-filled moat.
He purses his lips, laughs, says who will know?
You are the night sky above the red-cloud horizon.
When I fade like twilight, tell me who will know.
Which vein traces love, which proffers denial
as our blood starts flowing, and who will know?
Unanswered prayers line his frozen pockets.
When he unclenches his tiny hands, who will know?
This man’s tongue repels truth no matter the hour.
If we hear only what he allows, then who will know?
About the contributor: Robert Okaji lives in Texa and occasionally works on a ranch. The author of five chapbooks, most recently I Have a Bird to Whistle (Luminous Press, 2019), his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Slippery Elm, Panoply, Claw & Blossom and elsewhere.