by Bianca De Nobrega Silva
I head home to unload the dishwasher.
I know metal mouths await me — gaping, screaming
like Sybils, swallowing what I cannot.
Like the priestess, I age indefinitely;
I fill the coffee machine with water.
The heels of the world hammer my spine—
Atlas undone on the linoleum floor.
No altar flame to bless this,
no candle lit to see what curdles in the dark
It speaks clearly at night
keeping me awake in bed—
with my voice buried
beneath dishes,
while rough hands move through tomorrow beneath sheets.
Small enough now to fit inside a jar.
I wait to be asked what I want.
Morning yawns its command.
I rise again.
Unloading metal mouths,
lighting candles for a God
who has forgotten my hands.
Bianca De Nobrega Silva is a Brazilian writer whose poetry is born of passion and stems from a curiosity for every kind of love and pain within the human condition. Silva earned a Bachelor’s of Arts in Psychology and English from Penn State University and has published poetry and essays in Kalliope, Folio, and KLIO.
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