Bones in the closet (Poem)
We are bones in closets
Building cobwebs into warmth,
Lips sewn shut with dark thread,
Keyholes that carry no noise.
We are unmade beds full of fetal repose,
Tear stained and suggestive exhalations
That sound very much like prayers,
But are actually murmurs of pain and fear.
Come slowly into our spaces,
Our wombs are streams of unending gloom.
Come into our bodies and hear the silence,
Everything is gone, every bird migrated.
We are shapeshifters in the dark;
From daughter to wife, to mother.
We push our misery in laundry baskets
And gorge on TV commercials.
And when the clock strikes 7,
We transform into chefs
Tasting and salting,
Garnishing and shredding.
We do the deeds at night
When the moon is high
And pray for all the shapes that
Occupy the corners of our hearts.
You do not hear us scream.
We are bones inside closets,
Building cobwebs and dust
In stillness and silence.