Written 4th August, 2026 from a comment received. For 1494 Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
I wrote the word then— lifted it from the page and something (not silence) opened underneath a small dark root taking hold where the word had been not grief no— not yet only the hush after a name loosens from the mouth and does not return The words I buried did not die they turned pale listening whitened underground drinking— slowly— the ink from my crossed-out lines feeding on refusal on absence until the page itself begins to open after midnight not with speech never speech but with petals insistently pressed pressing against the paper from the other side
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