but our home
address?
I mean—
not the current one,
but the place
where we came from.
Each time we open
our mouths to speak,
we must sneak
from its windows
and flee the perimeter.
But over and over
(in our scramble),
we spill
one more precious thing
which can never
be refilled;
and, flustered
and frightened, we retreat
there again,
locking the silent door
of our childhood
bedroom—where,
before we flop down
disconsolate
on the bed
in the shape
(and the muteness) of
a fetus in the womb,
we grab the
silent radio
knob with one hand,
and—buttoned-up,
status-quo parents
be damned—
we twist hard
as we can—really
crank up the volume.
