Forces of You
Ali Eteraz
When she weeps, the curtains rebel, incensed, they foment, they crease,
they flutter without a breeze, even the damn blinds split open, lip
after lip trembling
crackling and popping, like leaves at unease; and when she turns away in
sorrow, her face to the wall, the AC otherwise celibate, celebrates
the moment, in
excitement, in vigor, it revs up, becomes enticed, beleaguered it
lets tumble, shooting
forth from the wall, all its spiced electric juices, chilled but chaste,
they rush to the sighs she has sung into the dawn; when she wails,
the pale white
paint chips crackles and rips, breaking like branches off the tree of
ceiling: the dampness from which they peel is from the humidity of
her tears; even
though I like to believe that water-stains brought their demise, secretly
I’ve
known their pain: the paint is skinned and flayed because it reacts to
her exclaims; when her silence hangs heavy, the dreary house fears
infinity, cold invisible
wraiths rumble, and silent electric snakes whisper, slithering uninvited;
and death falls like dew, and breath becomes a recluse, and fear reigns
in the stillness,
and all this leaves the TV, no choice but to scream, out loud, intense,
extreme, until volume loses its voice, and its throat goes hoarse, it
becomes white noise,
and the splotches of snow plead for her to bring back life, for her to
once again please, speak. Please.
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