It’s much easier to listen than to be heard,
so I assemble a wide-eyed, open expression,
and shelve all the blaring thoughts
to the dead wood walls of my mind.
I am an expert at starting sentences,
horrendous at finishing them. How can I
tell you I resent you? Ingrained into my being
is the declaration of one way transactions.
My parents may offer unwarranted criticism,
I may not. I open my mouth every time,
hesitate between each doorway,
and choose not to step through.
Conflict avoidance requires premonition,
and the fear of the tension
that could fill the air if I step wrong.
Do I write an apology or a love note?
The best observations
do not receive a response.
Nature does not argue. Deer in the streets,
swirling wet snow, and a felt blanket of fog
over the mountains. I may whisper
to the immovable pine that I miss him.
I’ll tell my dreams where the cardinals can hear.
All the could-have would-haves are swallowed
by the stars. Anger is felt in peace. Stories are born
and fade quickly. I could tell you that my pencil sharpener leaks,
I’m afraid of loud noises, and I am reckless
but self-contained. My town awards silence
as introspective, even intelligent, and I wear
the blue ribbon like the lies do not hook into my rib, thornlike,
and yank me up for air.