I am from the land of loud sounds:

shouts vibrating the air like a tuning fork,

heavy footfalls cracking the linoleum,

keys slamming on the dresser.

I am from the place of trying to not make a sound,

of collectively held breath,

where we hunkered like rabbits

until the thunder moved past.

I am from the dammed up place behind

my mother’s lips

where words piled on top of each other

and rotted in the dark moist cave of  her mouth.

I am from the place behind

my mother’s eyes, her dark pupils

like portholes you could peer through

to see the  prisoner languishing inside.

I am from the place that clanks

and grinds and screeches with machinery

I could feel through the floor

but have never seen

I am from the place where noise and silence uneasily mixed

like oil and water,

like wolves and sheep

like bacteria and blood.

I am from the place where mouths are watched warily as snakes;

I am from the place where eyes have learned to speak;

I am from the place where silence spoke volumes;

I am from the place where speaking out meant

a dozen kinds of death.