Open Thou Our Lips

A poem by Michael Symmons Roberts.

Because there is a word we must not say,
of course we hear it everywhere.

The dog left in a cold yard sings it.
Unanswered phones in locked houses

are desperate to utter it, newsreaders
with currency updates breathe it

between yen and dollar. Like many so
afflicted I pace the bare boards

of my room and listen to the voice
inside my skull intone it as a litany.

A bit of me is tempted to come out with it,
since none would hear and it would be

a weight off my tongue, but when I open
my window the world rushes in:

moon-lust, elm-smoke, sirens, everything.

Michael Symmons Roberts recently won the Forward Prize for Poetry for his collection “Drysalter” (Jonathan Cape, £12), from which this poem is taken

Tags:poetry