Nick Visconti

Well, what’d you expect, Lear, of madness,

beyond the storm lingering above your head,

if not words misunderstood, turned to ash by

every daughter in every act? Silence speaks.

Your favorite did not say nothing. She spoke

the code you taught then forgot, land

meaning little with her father, soot-covered

and craven for the hunt with men

who obey him. Help me understand

the burden, Lear, the blindness here—

hawks you cowled and caged for supper

losing their feathers by the fistful.

Had I daughters, they would be well fed and sea-

worthy—my daughters would know every knot.