In the command center, conscious of light,
but surrounded by darkness,
chill desk beneath my arms, a pen
that will not write sets in my hand.
The pen is fine. It’s my hand has no
communication to the soul outpost
on my emotional front. I stretch every nerve.
But there’s nothing there.
I send out messengers up the line
to gauge the situation, scout for movement.
My orders are simple, good or bad,
scan for heartbeats, smiles, tears,
any rustle in the trees, birdsongs, sighs.
Then write a report of your observations.
“All’s quiet,” they say.
“There’s Nothing there.”
“Okay. Pull back, then,” I signal, because
extending the lines of communication
into enemy territory without support
weakens a force. But they do not answer.
Not a breath, a thought, nor a dream
from the soul horizon. So I write the report,
because even Nothing is something.
©Joseph Hesch 2012