Somewhere in the silence, like a
remnant of silk in a clenched fist,
my cicada wings buzzed, my
moth brain burned.
I thought I could fly
to the sound of your name,but my toes grew roots with tendrils,
and the moon frowned in disapproval.
I opened my mouth to scream,
when out came the buzz of a mosquito.
A minor annoyance, or so I thought.
Then every time I opened my jaw,
out popped a hiss or hum or murmur or purr,
and soon I was swarmed with sounds.
If I could reach with a net and catch these things,
these whispers, this whirring, these words,
if I could lasso a cluster of them altogether,
would they spell your name, in hieroglyphs?
Or would they tell me of my negligence.
That I am burning the food of the poor,
while I sit and enjoy my leisure?
The thought stings me back to
the symmetry of the moon,
and her silence.
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