I’ll Not Go Gently
by Jalina Mhyana
Sweets turned to stone in your mouth, quartz-quiet.
You gazed at the hospital’s family-less window, tongue
stilled by the sill; they’ve already left you. Silence.
A window of opportunity: please, you’re just shy
of yes. Come to England, be mine. Your miserly lungs
won’t reply. I am sweet on the sill, but still, quiet.
Come with me and be my love. I promise you’ll like it.
In the bag of sweets, a note: “We’re waiting!” it sung.
Still by the sill, why should I leave you stone-silent?
I’m starved at the window. They’ve left you crying.
Sweets turned to stone—best not get sick of, not run
the risk of… no reply. My sweet is still quiet.
Your tongue is sweet, but words are sweeter, lying.
Say something, say yes. Das ist meine Hoffnung.
Because your words go gently into night… Quiet.
And us, my love? Yes or no, the rest of our lives.
Stay in Germany—for what? I stutter. I’m a gun
with stones in my pocket. “Go gently,” (despising).
Curse me, bless me! We rage, discuss(ted), disquiet.