When silence is another kind of violence.


Like all the breath you've ever breathed


suddenly swallowed. But since it happened


over days, each night a little worse,


it lacked the drama of my father's death.


He went down, like a building, on his knees.


I sat in the dark inside the feeling


I was turning into stone, or, if I turned


around, to salt, salt-crystals diamonding


the blackouts. Silence is what you hear,


the mouth a moon of Os, black filling up


the body with its blood. I listened.


Each night, all night, my father louder.


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