I carry her secrets like a ticklish cough
or some bit of food swallowed too hastily
I choke on words that ache to be spoken
or expelled
in fist-forced catharsis
But we cannot speak of it –that’s the rule-
So we are confined
to black words on white pages
and ignore
their infinite shades of gray
I keep her silence
She defines herself with these unspoken words
though she peels off the labels and separates their
letters
denying them form and speech
afraid
of consequence
afraid
of the sharp gasp of breath as they take shape
like thick exhaled smoke
hanging heavy in the dead air of closed minds
afraid
they will take on weight and substance
whose sharp edges slice
whose rounded curves carve
scars in triangles
and rings
Secrets are weighty things
-their heaviness bends the bones
into fetal curves
within the womb of silence.
But there is no growth within this womb,
no breath of clean air
Only salinity – like living in a world of tears
floating naked and curled
Her fears are real
and there are sharper things than letters
waiting in the ignorant world
So I keep her silence
and clutch her secret in my dry palms
I carry their weight carefully
like a full glass of water
--Vicky Hathaway
