April 17, 2014

 

I am quiet, like the mildew on the bathroom window-sill,

                        or the water-stain on the kitchen ceiling,

                        the lilac galaxy of a bruise on your inner thigh.

 

I am the voiceless voice, the bleached-out shadow, the rib of light on the tea kettle.

 

I am in-between the tick and the tock

and the half-moon of your nailbeds.

 

I am neither black or white.

 

I am, I am, I am.