a short history of silence::una breve historia del silencio
A short history of silence
In our house, all the clocks are turned off and the mirrors
Don’t work. We sit like bread in a stay-fresh wrapper,
Keep ourselves to our selves. Sometimes the speeches
Are so beautiful it hurts. On the porch where we can’t be
Seen to smile, the honeysuckle meshes with silent
Weeds. We rock back and forth, back and forth in our long
Black dresses. Mosquitoes taste our blood and find it good.
Inside, candles are lit every night and keep going
Until they burn themselves down. We kiss our fingers
To our lips like Italians, promise we’ll never look back.
Whip-poor-will. When the doorbell rings we don’t answer.
In winter, the fur grows long on the horses and the ice
Grows long on the eaves. We sleep in the same bed
Like good animals, braid our hair together, tailor
Our limbs to fit. Conspiracy of wood.
In our house, all the clocks are turned off and the mirrors
Don’t work. We sit like bread in a stay-fresh wrapper,
Keep ourselves to our selves. Sometimes the speeches
Are so beautiful it hurts. On the porch where we can’t be
Seen to smile, the honeysuckle meshes with silent
Weeds. We rock back and forth, back and forth in our long
Black dresses. Mosquitoes taste our blood and find it good.
Inside, candles are lit every night and keep going
Until they burn themselves down. We kiss our fingers
To our lips like Italians, promise we’ll never look back.
Whip-poor-will. When the doorbell rings we don’t answer.
In winter, the fur grows long on the horses and the ice
Grows long on the eaves. We sleep in the same bed
Like good animals, braid our hair together, tailor
Our limbs to fit. Conspiracy of wood.
Una breve historia del silencio
En nuestra casa, todos los relojes están apagados y los espejos
No funcionan. Nos sentamos como pan en una envoltura que lo mantiene fresco,
Nos mantenemos apartados en nosotros mismos. A veces los discursos
Son tan hermosos que duele. En el porche donde no pueden vernos
Sonreír, la madreselva se enreda con las malas hierbas
Silenciosas. Nos balanceamos hacia adelante y atrás, adelante y atrás en nuestros largos Vestidos negros. Los mosquitos prueban nuestra sangre y la encuentran sabrosa.
Adentro, las velas se encienden todas las noches y continúan
Prendidas hasta que se apagan solas. Besamos nuestros dedos
Con nuestros labios, como italianos, prometiendo que nunca miraremos hacia atrás.
Látigar-pobre-voluntad. Cuando suena el timbre, no respondemos.
En invierno, el pelaje de los caballos crece mucho y el hielo
Crece mucho en los aleros. Dormimos en la misma cama
Como buenos animales, trenzamos nuestro cabello una a otra, adaptamos
Nuestras extremidades para caber. La conspiración de la madera.
JANE YEH
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