The Trouble with Silk

I listened careful, surprised
by soft-spoken reference,
bit of thin mist in the air.
I had suspected
but watched the corner
of your eyes tighten
as we discussed the body
the bloody thumbprint of history;
the burden you carry
in your spine, close to your hip.
It is inconvenient to wear
these layers, this stacked lie
on your sleeve.
But where else do you put it?
It is too dangerous.
Similar to the way
it is dangerous
for me to be here
in the first place.
I wonder but never ask.
You can pass, I realize.
You can whisper to me
in the crevice of our day,
walk out of harmony song
wear the gradual undoing
of your body, your treble
tongue, your tremble,
hidden under your armpit
like salt stain,
like small puddle
like pause to rest
at the end of the measure.
I will never tell.
It is not my story.
I hope the sweat
never ruins your blouse.

 

 

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Categories: Poetry, Writing

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