Hey
by Bob Hicok
Silence isn't deafening. It would be brother
or sister to hand grenades if it were.
Which are not hands that explode. Dead poet,
I was enjoying your poem until you used
that cliche, when I stopped, got out of that poem
and into this one, which seems very mean so far.
Because you're dead, I think, and can't defend yourself,
can't show me the lab results that prove silence
abuses the inner ear. I read with you once in Chattanooga:
you were much taller at the time. As you know
very well now, silence is quiet, and love
has nothing to do with the heart, and time
heals some wounds and makes others deeper,
for we all have our Grand Canyons of woe.
That's a terrible line, cringable even,
but I'm trying to be honest and think it's true.
When we talked after, a little boozed,
I saw a cheetah running down an antelope
in your eyes. And you, my friend,
were the slower one, and I always liked that
about you, that you tried your best
nonetheless, and by that I mean, allthemore.
Bob Hicok's most recent collection is Breathe (Copper Canyon Press, 2026).
