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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