Amy Gerstler

 

 

The Meek 

 

They sit apart at parties, wilting

like neglected houseplants. Their music

is easily confused with white noise.

When the booze runs out, none

of them has the nerve to shoulder

into his coat and hike to a nearby

liquor store for more. You never 

catch them wearing bright colors.

Their laughs are half-swallowed.

They yawn a lot, wallow in apology,

kneel, plead. Their sea of griefs

has been rising since humanity began.

So what’s their plan? Most of the matter

in the universe is invisible, and the meek

teeter on the cusp of the unseen. When

we notice them at all, we’re distracted by

bowed heads, tight smiles: benign disguises

behind which lurks an eternity of mildness,

and a ravening, saber-toothed surprise.

 

 

 

Devorah Baum