The Weight of Silence
A woman stands waiting while
her make-up application struggles
over fussing eyelids and a sagging belly
she eyes disapprovingly.
She remains seated,
feeling bored and misled,
until he enters
her narrow hallway.
She sees him tall, strong,
distracted by so little—
a sort of eye candy
for her weary eyes.
Now he is entering her room,
closing the door,
drawing the shades,
in their secretive squalor of love.
He flips off the light switch,
hiding them both from a world
they hope never to see,
together in their darkness.
He undresses himself and lies
face down on her bed,
gaze hidden, waiting for her to touch him.
She remains silent for a long time,
hoping he will change, even for a moment,
while she lets him ask the questions
that keep him firmly
above her head.
Then he tells her,
It's too dark in here,
can you turn on
the lights?
She listens for more talking
but hears only the outdoor breezes
blowing through the trees
and the sun still peeking
from behind a lovely cloud.
He leaves her house shortly thereafter,
reminding her to lock the door
when he leaves,
as if to protect her.
A woman sees her house disheartened,
too many broken tiles,
scratches in the wood,
and dust bunnies hide in the corners.
Close by, a bright orange parking ticket
lies on her parked car—
an unwanted reminder of
her time spent wasting,
waiting for herself
to claim it,
while she wonders,
Why didn't the wind blow it away?
c. Triada Samaras 12/28/2024
another version 12/29/2024
A woman stands waiting while
her make-up application struggles
over fussing eyelids and a sagging belly
she eyes disapprovingly.
She sits stiffly in a kitchen chair,
fumbling over whatever leftover project
lands in her lap
as her coffee gets cold in a neglected pot.
She remains seated,
feeling bored and misled,
until he enters
her narrow hallway.
She sees him tall, strong,
distracted by so little—
a sort of eye candy
for her weary eyes.
Now he is entering her room,
closing the door,
drawing the shades,
in their secretive squalor of love.
He flips off the light switch,
hiding them both from a world
they hope never to see,
together in their darkness.
He undresses himself and lies
face down on her bed,
gaze hidden, waiting for her to touch him.
She remains silent for a long time,
hoping he will change, even for a moment,
while she lets him ask the questions
that keep him firmly
above her head.
Then he tells her,
"It's too dark in here,
can you turn on
the lights?"
She listens for more talking
but hears only the outdoor breezes
blowing through the trees
and the sun still peeking
from behind a lovely cloud.
He leaves her house shortly thereafter,
reminding her to lock the door
when he leaves,
as if to protect her.
A woman sees her house disheartened,
too many broken tiles,
scratches in the wood,
and dust bunnies hide in the corner.
Her shadows lie long
across the room,
whispering tales of surrendered dreams.
Close by, a bright orange parking ticket
lies on her parked car—
an unwanted reminder of
her time spent wasting,
waiting for herself
to claim it,
while she wonders,
"Why didn't the wind blow it away?"
OR
A woman stands waiting while
her make-up application struggles
over fussing eyelids and a sagging belly
she eyes disapprovingly.
She sits stiffly in a kitchen chair,
fumbling over whatever leftover project
lands in her lap
as her coffee gets cold in a neglected pot.
She remains seated,
feeling bored and misled,
until he enters
her narrow hallway.
She sees him tall, strong,
distracted by so little—
a sort of eye candy
for her weary eyes.
Now he is entering her room,
closing the door,
drawing the shades,
in their secretive squalor of love.
He flips off the light switch,
hiding them both from a world
they hope never to see,
together in their darkness.
He undresses himself and lies
face down on her bed,
gaze hidden, waiting for her to touch him.
She remains silent for a long time,
hoping he will change, even for a moment,
while she lets him ask the questions
that keep him firmly
above her head.
Then he tells her,
"It's too dark in here,
can you turn on
the lights?"
She listens for more talking
but hears only the outdoor breezes
blowing through the trees
and the sun still peeking
from behind a lovely cloud.
He leaves her house shortly thereafter,
reminding her to lock the door
when he leaves,
as if to protect her.
Close by, a bright orange parking ticket
lies on her parked car—
an unwanted reminder of
her time spent wasting,
waiting for herself
to claim it,
while she wonders,
"Why didn't the wind blow it away?"
A woman sees her house disheartened,
too many broken tiles,
scratches in the wood,
and dust bunnies hide in the corners.
Her shadows lie long
across the room,
whispering tales of surrendered dreams.
