Kim Salinas Silva
DOES YOUR WIFE ALWAYS TALK THIS MUCH?
What it’s like to be a quiet person--shy--floating fretfully between words, not like plants, who hold hands in quiet ceremony, not like animals, who’re wordless but lack nothing. They’re full of everything they need. Power, courage, correct instinct. And with moist eyes they see everything and move time along, slowly pushing through grass and dust.
Soon mammals will disappear. I’ll disappear, too; burn slowly like them. And the world’s words will smolder, spin in the air, trail smoke. Leave an afterburn carved into a shopping mall. And a bomb a boy’s clothes in tatters.
But, be still, be strong.
Don’t go in the car, not even for a dizzy ride. Don’t turn your head. Don’t watch the murderous clowns take shape behind leaves, blink back a winter’s sludge. Be cold in the rain. Fast till your neck bone sings, sharp enough to slice your own mind to pieces. Then roar, scream, cry. Cloaked in smoking coats.
Walk the mindless scheme of evil, fetch it, bring it home.
Stuff your throat with aged homilies, it’s coming, it’s coming.
The language of green and fur briefs you, the sonic boom of failure cracks the earth.
And out spill words, all the words, we’re drowning in words.