The brush against the ceramic basin. 

The bangle that clanged from her wrist. 

That is the sound of me. 

That is the sound of domesticity. 


It was birthed with me

Only, the umbilical cord to 

Domesticity’s chaos theory 

Never was cut. 

Its practice too sacred, 

To blasphemize. 

Its threshold too stern, 

To chastise.  


It was the sound of love. 

Of a couple creating, 

On a middle class canvas 

Where only flesh and bone was 

Allowed to remain concrete, 

Real enough. 

Its sound of monotony too exciting, 

To stop. 

Its cycle, too repetitive 

To pause. 


It lived inside of me. 

Like the first cell 

That replicates, emulates 


The membrane retained 

What the mind distanced. 

Its geneticity, too germane 

To mutate. 

Its teaching, too toxic  

To cauterize. 


The sound of me dodging the bullet, 

The sound of the lasso of truth, my leash.  

That is the sound of domesticity. 

That is the sound of me.