The inner woman,
the woman within the woman is made up,
a dream on a hilltop, someone distant,
imagined on a cloudy afternoon
by the inner man, who sits on a curb,
looking up at a window,
thinking she sits in a chair by that window
and thinking also that the greatest weeping,
the most terrible weeping is silent,
is neither seen nor heard,
but rather goes on intensely
inside a man like himself or a woman like
the imagined woman in the hilltop house
at the heart of life, the inner life.
The weeping that is silent is the greatest
weeping, the tears of angst neither seen
nor heard. Sometimes the man
is not aware he is weeping,
yet it’s the hardest weeping.
Sometimes aware, other times unaware.
It goes on day after day, night after night,
the silent tears, sobs, weeping
over something lost or found, or done
or not done, some regret
greater than all others in his life,
a regret that goes on regretting
at the heart of the inner life.
The man sits on a curb
at the bottom of the hill and looks up
to the house on the hill. He imagines
a woman behind a window in that house
opening a cupboard, to take down a jar
of wishes. Behind the man,
green branches of trees,
behind the trees a river.
the woman within the woman is made up,
a dream on a hilltop, someone distant,
imagined on a cloudy afternoon
by the inner man, who sits on a curb,
looking up at a window,
thinking she sits in a chair by that window
and thinking also that the greatest weeping,
the most terrible weeping is silent,
is neither seen nor heard,
but rather goes on intensely
inside a man like himself or a woman like
the imagined woman in the hilltop house
at the heart of life, the inner life.
The weeping that is silent is the greatest
weeping, the tears of angst neither seen
nor heard. Sometimes the man
is not aware he is weeping,
yet it’s the hardest weeping.
Sometimes aware, other times unaware.
It goes on day after day, night after night,
the silent tears, sobs, weeping
over something lost or found, or done
or not done, some regret
greater than all others in his life,
a regret that goes on regretting
at the heart of the inner life.
The man sits on a curb
at the bottom of the hill and looks up
to the house on the hill. He imagines
a woman behind a window in that house
opening a cupboard, to take down a jar
of wishes. Behind the man,
green branches of trees,
behind the trees a river.
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Peter Mladinic's most recent book of poems, The Homesick Mortician, is available from BlazeVOX books. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.
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