Esme Franklin '13
I learned to tell what kind of day it would be
according to the sounds coming from the kitchen.
Too quiet, bad. Too loud, bad. A man’s voice?
Better. When cupboards slammed
Sisyphus let slip his boulder
again. The silence of failed domesticity
sagged at the ankles of her mountain.
When she was able to refuse the myth
there was a boyfriend to bring hamburgers,
a smitten ex, a sack of stolen croissants.
Quiet mouths were full and quiet mornings empty.
Do not lie listening for too long, said the silence.