when
his fingers strum you
all you can do is sing.
or wail.
sometimes it sounds more like wailing.
and whatever he’s feeling comes out of your mouth.
whatever he’s thinking.
whatever he’s saying inside
comes out of you instead and
your throat’s sore from all the screaming
he’s feeling; from all the anger
little peach pits in his stomach
and you regurgitate them and
your throat is bloody red.
sleepy skies and morning dew
play pianissimo, slowly
crescendoing as the
sun strains
to peek through
my window.
a quarter rest– just to stretch–
and the percussion of
socks smacking
wood.
a high C,
sung softly in vibrato
to the twin toddlers
sleeping
three doors down.
xylophone keys
falling
into
the toilet bowl.
quiet, frantic
glissando down
the stairs.
the
smash of the cymbals slamming
shut.
the final note,
the delicate
click of the key.
the applause.
Silenticel 