The Sound of Me
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
Inevitably.
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.
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