YET AGAIN

She reads to him every night,
her eyelids as gummy as bread dough,
the words trickling out like wooden soldiers,
precise, regimented,
inflection as faded as bleached wallpaper

And his eyes locked on hers’
seeing but not hearing;
or hearing but not seeing,
watching the words form on  her lips
like ice crystals on glass.
His legs stir beneath the covers,
more reflexive than enthralled

She suppresses a yawn,
repetition surrendering to boredom,
the story unchanging night after night,
like the stars in the evening sky,
permanent and familiar,
yet unattainable in their scope

She bookmarks the page in the book,
knowing it matters not to him,
each page the same as the last,
the spoken words just one more exercise
of synchronicity between larynx and lips
but it matters to her,
for each passing page
is a measure of her own sanity

ESMERALDA

Esmeralda is a funny sounding name

like
the metallic groan
of faulty plumbing

or
a broken screen door
swiveling on its hinges

or
the squawk of
rain-drenched sneakers

When  I was a child of
five or so,
with ringlets of honey-toned hair
swiveling past my ears

there was a neighbor on our block
who, whenever he would see me,
would call out in that derisive sing-song
peculiar to all bullies

Hey, Esmeralda!
Hi, Esmeralda!

And I at age five or so
wanted to shrivel away
in my own skin
and throw up from my first
bilious taste of humiliation

And thanks to the thoughtlessly cruel
taunting by an adult,
this five year old learned

how to crawl inward for protection,
and how to distrust the human gaze,
                                                                                                       
and how to view oneself
as an oddity

He’s probably dead after all these years,
but in those odd moments
that hang like distended organs,

I can hear his voice
as wickedly sharp as a scythe
slicing my ego with the thrust
of every syllable
calling out:
Hey, Esmeralda!

My question has always been:
Why Esmeralda?
Why not Bob or Jane?
Mary or Charlie?
I guess he chose it
for only one reason:

Esmeralda is a funny sounding name

SILENT BALLET

We are like a silent ballet,
predetermined movement without cadence,
cues missed, leaps untimed,
unbalanced spins, misstep
followed by misstep, and yet
we push our way through the choreography,
our bodies telling the story
the music refuses to play,
our ears incapable of hearing,
nonetheless: we defy gravity
with every leap, a tribute
to our synchronicity with silence