The Forces Of You

When she weeps,
the curtains rebel,
incensed, they foment,
they crease,
they flutter without a breeze,
even the damn blinds split open,
each lip trembling
crackling and popping,
like leaves at unease;

and when she turns away in sorrow,
her face to the wall,
the celibate AC,
celebrates the moment,
in excitement, in vigor,
it revves up, becomes enticed,
beleagured it lets tumble
shooting forth from the wall,
all its spiced electric juices,
chilled but chaste,
they rush to the sighs,
she has sung into the dawn;

when she wails,
the pale white paint,
chips crackles and rips
breaking like branches
off the tree of ceiling:
the dampness to which they peel,
is from the humidity of her tears;
even though I like to believe
that water-stains brought their demise,
secretely I’ve known their pain.
The paint is skinned and flayed,
because it reacts to her exclaims;

when her silence hangs heavy,
the dreary house fears infinity,
cold invisible wraiths rumble,
and silent electric snakes
whisper, slithering uninvited;
and death falls like dew,
and breath becomes a recluse,
and fear reigns in the stillness,
and all this
leaving the TV
no choice but to scream
out loud
intense
extreme,
until volume loses it voice,
and its throat goes hoarse,
it becomes white noise,
and black and white splotches of snow,
pleading for her to bring back life,
for her to once again please,
speak
please.