Where were you before the rewrite began? – Serena Lin
Collaborative Manifesto Project: here.
I was sleeping between words,
between syllables, a river in flux.
Our house sits next to a river
but only when the rain falls.
The cicadas come every summer
to build a deafening mythology,
only when the heat drizzles rain.
They tell my story with their song.
When I wake my
silence is breath.
It has become my
wall of sound.
We are always vibrating
in our bed, listening to the bugs cry
every night when the sun dies.
I was not born of your blood,
I tell you, but I am the space between the words.
When you get angry, you say,
“Breathe so you can speak.”
But I close my mouth.
I am running away from a story, a story
that my lola told me when I was young.
“When you fall in love,” she said,
“Build a river, build a wall of sound.”
I am always here, listening by the
river. By the porch. When the rain falls.
Silence conveys oxygen, I tell myself,
silence that smells like rage.
Do I not speak because I am not myself?