Monday, December 20, 2021


What is silence
but our home 

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 

before we flop down 
on the bed 

in the shape 
(and the muteness) of 
a fetus in the womb, 

we grab the 
silent radio 
knob with one hand, 

status-quo parents 
be damned—

we twist hard 
as we can—really 
crank up the volume.