Before We Are Named

by MissT

Let the waters turn to silt,
blackening like a stone-sealed well;
let ink seep through the page
as if it remembered what it hid.
Let old loyalties lie down
in the chapel’s sifted dust,
where names carved into pews
wear smooth under careless hands.
Leave revenge behind the glass,
cold iron refusing to forget rust;
we once, as children, gave ourselves
not knowing what that cost.
Now we move through shuttered halls,
past coats no one ever came back for,
naming what still lingers here
though it keeps refusing our voice.
Life runs brief, and often hard
still, tend embers in the nave;
but warmth does not mean mercy,
and flame does not mean grace.
When the final bell goes low,
it is already inside us,
arriving before we are named.
We mistake it for memory,
but it is only repetition
trying on each version of us
until none remain distinct enough
to answer.