How long I stood,
centered in your line
of sight, hungry
for your ear, a mute
transparent membrane
stretched pathologically
thin to breaking,
between you and him.

I forced my voice
down your stasis
one decibel at a time
to crack your
guard and rack
your senses with
the details of his death:

those heavy blood
and brain soaked sheets,
the yellow tape, the pictures
and interrogations,
the handcuffs gouging
my wrists, mixing blood
with blood down anxious
sticky fingers.

You had to know we shared
the man, but my mistake
to think you could
grasp the desperate
leveling worthlessness
wedged invisible
in that awkward stifling
space between you and him.

Now face to face
you can see the waste
pit of men's history
with their men—lies,
and silent hiding,
shamed to darkness, like
some freaky nosferateau

because I have learned to talk.

fiction non-fiction poetry art sounds