8-WEST PRESS

Thoughts without words by Mike Zimmerman

My grandfather began to cry

at Thanksgiving dinner when

my grandmother asked him,

“You remember how we met?”

He cried. They don’t know why.

He can’t keep track of his holidays

after two strokes. They think

he cried for a lost memory, like

something floating away. But I 

was sitting next to him—I saw

Thoughts gathering then that

never made it out; visible but

wisps, like clouds further off

that manage to blot out the sun,

dark, thick clouds. And I wonder,

How terrible are those thoughts

without the words, the clouds

sititng heavy without release?