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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