‘WORDS, WORDS, WORDS...' (HAMLET, SHAKESPEARE) Poem by Peter Verhelst

Nobody knows which story gave birth to Silence.
Click of toe- and fingernails on the wooden floor.
As if thirsty,

she keeps coming closer, breathing next to an ear.
She bends her legs, sniffs our hair, our coats,
shoes, mouths, armpits, fingers, searching for fears, dreams,
tenderness, the secrets we keep hidden from ourselves. She takes

a deep breath. Long back muscles.
Small breasts. Velvet belly. She crawls over us,

inside out, sighing, letting us smell her lips,
her tongue. Breathe her in.

As soon as the audience has left, the stage is cleared:
the bones of fear, the phalanges of tenderness, the hair
of dreams and the sinews of secrets piled together.
The folded canvas is raised
to the roof. Over the theatre, seagulls circle.

Nobody knows which story Silence is seeking - every night
she hurries through the streets. We stand naked at the window,
bellies pressed against the glass and dreaming of her.