silence has its own language
silence is in this house
in his eyes
in her folded hands
in the way he moves from room to room
in the reasons she turns her back
busybody
a knife in her hand
tearing the peel off
tearing it off
the skin
her own
gently
he is busy as well
the good body has something to do
he is filled to the brim
he doesn’t need a knife
he cuts open
with his bare hands
his dead hands
they work hard
to reclaim life
the one he was cheated out of
the one he offered
himself
away
these bodies create
and destroy
he writes his crimes into a wardrobe
the size of six lying men
everything he could have been
had he known better
but he writes and writes his life
onto paper
the unforgotten blood
onto paper
memories building towers
every letter means a word unspoken
every letter means silence
in this house
repentance in the wardrobe
there is no such thing as a new skin
the old one sticks
the old one knows
it’s in his bones
it’s in one bottle after another
teenage war
and she pulls herself together
unclaimed doll
above the kitchen sink
survival choreography
she knows it well
she locked herself away
makes coffee
makes food
careful with the spices
makes herself invisible
so that he won’t notice her
gives him food for every form of hunger
silence conceals the true nature of this house
silence stands still
and smiles for a snapshot
silence is an earthquake
silence comes to bite
and the dead beg at the windowsills
they are in our house
one to shed them all
one to yearn for them
she cuts so she won’t hear
and he finds what he’s looking for
in this house
Croque-Melpomene 