a slow, careful smile
that curdles on top like bad milk,
a skin freezing in increments over troubled
waters. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says
to the accompaniment of the skeletons doing a jig in her coat closet.
Silence sits upon silence,
a mute accumulation;
a hush pervades them all.
He won’t acknowledge
the white elephant in the room,
so neither will she;
the stillness deafens,
the lulls clamour,
with secret censorship
that wails without sound in her heart,
pounds and crackles in his brain.
He looks at her with a nameless longing,
she cries noiselessly into midnight pillows –
but still, the stillness snags,
expanding the girth
For more on this topic, visit Growing With God in My Garden