It was me
who
who what
who tied the silence to her hair
Three decades and one year of it all
braided in like ribbons
tiny strands
silver and glitter flecked
it cascaded down my nape, my neck, down into the small of my back
The silence
it swung shoulder to shoulder with every step I took
left
right
left
right
A ready reminder of the steady sound
the quiet
it was binder bound
with a single pound.
There I had it.
Hinged and three-ringed.
Life’s Little Instruction Book.
but then the silence was too strong
the silence was a scream, a shout, a
what-is-this-about
mantra
dancing from my brain and seeping through my braids
the silence starved
it shrieked
there’s nothing left to eat
the silence said
I have no taste for tenderness
It took eleven thousand three hundred ninety-five days
and the entirety of Chicago
before I discovered
at a restaurant on the northside
Lincoln Square
there is an unadvertised menu
Chef’s Specials of the day
They don’t bring it to your table
unless you make a special request
You have to go up to the hostess and tap her on the shoulder, three quick successions, and say, in ig-pay atin-lay, “ef-chay ecial-spay” before they even admit that it exists
They don’t want the customers to know
They’re afraid of a stampede
I guess
of silhouetted figurines
I guess
night-rioting for righteousness
that if we knew what we might otherwise be eating we’d never ask for standard American fare again
and that our country cannot exist if we don’t all order Family Style, monogamous hamburgers and “freedom fries”, whenever we go out to dinner
I’ve seen the secret menu and
Oh,
it
is
everything.
Liver, rabbit, goose, pâté
it is steaming seared steak, bloody and rare
curry roasted cauliflower
it is herb crusted pork ribs
and fresh mint leaves from a hidden garden on the roof
It is duck confit and crispy ginger chicken
it is brussel sprouts with bacon
green beans with sage and lemon rinds
it is his hands, my hips,
his lips, my wrists, at midnight
seven separate styles of laughter
exhilarated, annotated, and decidedly not abbreviated
it is a glance, a glimpse from the iris of your eye to the pupil of mine that flashes
Me.
And who wouldn’t love to love themself that way
The silence does not even know itself
It never did
There are three hundred sixty-five days in a year
right now
Each day is long
and loud
And I can hear them all
The line "the one who tied silence to his hair" is from one of Rafael Alberti's "El Ángel Bueno" poems, translated by Mark Strand.
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