Quiet Men You are smoke detectors for drama: experienced with the quickly inflamed, low reasonable voices like animal tamers. Quiet men, nestled in broadsheets; sheds of home-brewed ale; on allotments, thick fingers raking soil. Men whose eyes are a be right back sign, but who dispel fights with a palm on the shoulder then walk slowly home; zip the night neatly shut like a tent. Men who make vaults of closed doors, who leave you ranting, straining against your own skin, split with rage like a tomato on boil. Sometimes we gather: your partners, your sisters – huff over your muteness, polish your stone for mineral glint: I just need him to bloody say something. You walk silence as if yogis on hot coals, that steady breath through all that stings. The rest of us pole-vault it, gabble around its edges: heat we flood our senses to avert but you’ve walked that narrow strip all your lives. It holds everything you need. From one terrible edge to another we walk across you and we walk without fear.
Posted on: Thu, 18 Sep 2014 11:45:16 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015