Just like that.
That is a tortoise shell and that is a girl under it.
The second voices raise, she scuttles for shelter
like a sea crab that can’t tell night from day.

It’s really about the absence of yelling, that forced
silence between car mates, phone mates, soul mates
or those moments following an insult when you’re first
able to take it all in.

It could be a rushed silence, wanting to escape from the room
or a dripping, mournful silence when truth is revealed.

Either way, the girl hides.

The voice on the end of the line is curt and halting.
It hangs bombs across telephone wires.
She watches them swing. Just like that.

That is her returning to work.
Those are the marred moments.
She must wait until he calls again
offering an explanation.

03/03/2005

Posted on 03/03/2005
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky