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A quarterly international literary journal


/ 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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