/ Poetry /
Silence isn’t quiet. Quiet is the sound
of homes falling asleep or car traffic
dying down and restaurants clearing out,
or when my child sneaks off to play alone.
Silence is the echo of expectation. It’s stalled breath
anticipating touch or stopped words. A firm breast
waiting for the milk to let down and the lost check
in the mail; a sharp fermata.
I must teach my love to be loud like this. I must
teach my love to be symphonic awe. I will grow
children wild and flowers free. I will saunter wide,
stop time. In hushed wreckage, may I be the tonic.
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