Silence is a color so bright, it chafes

Silence is a color so bright, it chafes

Silence is the color no one sees,

it turns like a tongue

in the mouth of a mole,

it scents the fiber of burlap,

hears the room of wagging heads.

Silence will thump down the stairs,

will carry itself into baggage,

click the locks without keys.

The muddy tongue of melancholia

beats hard against its own head.

Hollers like a field of sunflowers,

grazes in an acre of hell.

There are no Xanders in this colony:

whipped, peeled, parried, they feel the tender scars.

Teeth to teeth, they taste that middle-of-the-night

wish for whipped cream and cherries,

the jasmine smell of memory,

the old bedroom with its sealed door.

Silence is a color so bright, it chafes

the eyes of strangers, who turn away,

white with the epiphany of appetite,

blind to the mirror of parallel lips.


Copyright 2009 TAWhite