Joseph Milosch

Sin of Silence

The night Donald Trump became the President,

I walked to an Ethiopian pizza parlor in San Diego.

Streetlights made the road appear as if it rained. 

The traffic signal turned red as I reached the parlor door,

giving the crimson-brick building an angry look.

Inside, I sat by a large window. As I waited,

I studied the restaurant's Roman-style arches

and a mural of an African sunset.

Above it, a television broadcasted the news.

While I ate, I glanced at two elderly ladies

wearing traditional Ethiopian dresses.

They cried as the newswoman gloated over Trump winning.

I considered consoling them, but my mind centered

around the inadequate language of funerals:

I can’t know how you feel, but I hope

it helps to know someone cares.

Therefore, I committed the sin of silence, and when they left,

their sadness was unforgettable. 

It followed me everywhere ― to ballgames ― picnics― the beach.

It traveled with me to the Aran islands off the West Coast of Ireland.

It rained on the morning when I arrived,

and the foggy white-capped sea added

to my melancholy. I felt it as I rode the ferry from the Main Island

to Inishmore, where I hired a guide driving a horse-drawn cart

 A retired merchant marine, he drove his buggy around the island.

He stopped at the rusted hull of a ship grounded on the rocks.

“In ‘42, the Nazis ran it ashore,” he said, knocking his pipe

against the dashboard of the cart. Up the hill and to the left,

he stopped by a church, he said, “The British blew it to bits.

Cromwell thought he could enslave us, but we got the last laugh.”

Down the lane, he stopped and said,

“They still farm that place over there the old way: by hand.”

Then, he spit downwind as he drove and continued to talk about his horses.

Pointing at the white horse, he said, “I call the male Blackie,

and the other, her name is Not-so.”

He had shortened it from Not-So Black.

She was a roan, and both were Belgian draft horses.

“Blackie' is the lazy one,” he said, and to prove his point

he clucked Up. Up. “Not-So is the worker,”

and he slapped her rump with his whip.

That is how the early morning went as we passed by the sheep pens

and patches of potatoes. The guide told me nothing else about the island

as he coddled Blackie and lashed Not-So.

After the tour, I went into a pastry shop.

Afterward, I walked to the pier, sat on a concrete bench,

and watched the cloud cover break apart.

I felt far away from the immediate future as the sun warmed the day

and made the white caps sparkle.

I watched the ships sailing the trade routes,

and it seemed that it was almost possible to believe the past

slept in the rusted hull of a freighter or a disemboweled church.

Surrounded by the music of the waves rocking the moored ships ―

the melody of their creaking chains―

I almost believed in my country ― except

for the memory of those two women crying.