In the Quiet That Follows
The wallpaper peeled
in secret places,
green teapots, pink roses
giving way to plaster.
My father told stories
in the dark beside us,
his voice a soft percussion
against the night.
He spoke of long lines,
cold lands,
a world I couldn’t picture,
but I listened,
let it settle
like dust on morning shoes.
My brother slept
in his silver criblight,
his breath
a feather in the hush.
I remember
cracks in the ceiling,
slippers,
his laugh
against the pane.
What remains
isn’t the tale,
but the telling.
The warmth.
The hush
just before
the door shuts.
Across the collections
Selected titles in Jude’s wider body of work include “I Did Not Know Her,” “One Cleft Moon,” “Leaning Into Your Distance,” “Squamish Storm,” “Fused to the Impossible Blue,” “Splendid in Its Silence,” and “The Thief.”
“What remains isn’t the tale, but the telling.” — Jude Neale