Dance To The Noise In My Home

Three homes away there’s a noise; the type that death brings.

Father just died , mother is going insane.

While the aunties and uncles hang around like vultures,

The children, like little chicks, cluster around in circles – confused and scared.

A wail breaks out from the lungs of the mother; it’s the 142nd time today

A gasp escapes from her daughter; it’s her 2nd birthday today.

 

Two homes away there’s a noise; the type that lack brings.

Empty stomach, Empty hearts.

Half a dozen children take turns to weep;

As though competing to give a whole new meaning to – Empty barrels make the loudest noise.

‘How can my 1 year old understand despair more than a 42 year old?’

His mother asks as she sings a song for the two year old.

 

In the home with whom we share a fence, there’s a noise; the type hate brings

Screaming father, Wailing mother

With no way to know that a cracked voice can alternatively be gotten on a crusade ground,

They help each other destroy their windpipes

And their reputation

And their trust

And their kids

And their love.

‘You lying piece of housefly-rejected shit, shut your trap and tell me why she’ll call you 42 times?!’ she says

You lying piece of housefly-rejected shit, because she loves me 42 times more than you ever have, that’s why!’ he replies.

 

In my home there is a noise; the type sleep brings

Snoring father, Sleep-talking mother

I smile and spread the duvet over them

I can dance bata to the snores of father;

And render great instrumentals to the sleep-talking of my mother.

If that would be enough to show that I am grateful,

For the type of noise that is in my home.

 

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