The Language of Silence
We don't talk about it, I was mutely told,
Schooled in your nonverbal narcissism, I Attest
I became a linguist in the language of silence;
The tightened line of your mouth when a speck
of childhood play leaked through the Aperture
of your wall of control; the Nuance of your slit eyes,
the stiffness of your shoulders when I disturbed.
The famine of your brevity, starkly juxtaposed with
the Proclivity of your friendly words for the neighbors;
Your perfunctory weak praise, more to lessen your guilt
than lift my esteem.
Even as I write this Saga under the weight of betrayal
nearly undone by our mutual oath of avoidance, and
after decades of delay, you have the Temerity to now
charge me with building the distance, keeping the barricade.
I am bluntly surprised, by your surprise; to accuse me of
this Barren contact, is to blame the clay for the cracks
in the hands that molded it.
And you dare say, why am I this way?
When I inherited the Marrow from you-
for John Hamilton's Eight Word Challenge contest
required words: Aperture, Attest, Barren, Temerity, Saga, Proclivity, Nuance, Marrow.
Copyright © Michelle Faulkner | Year Posted 2018
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