Listening To The Sound Of Memory

(for Emmett Till)

Randall Horton

day almost silent now but not   really boomerangs of blackbirds
flood   the horizon a fading sun   calm yet   faintest rustle of yellow poplars
whistling   a tune decades old   unable to find home sweet   home lost
a sleepless hum   gently pressing ear   inside the body a boy’s voice:

do remember  do remember   me.
please.

return   not possible— unlike the blackbirds pausing midair   for a second
slowly fading   back somewhere: a branch   a rest place   but   the whistle
it follows the nomadic blue wind    must move    somewhere: far far—
far away    so so tired   so tired.

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