portion of the artwork for Ali Eteraz's poetry

Forces of You
Ali Eteraz

When she weeps, the curtains rebel, incensed, they foment, they crease, they flutter without a breeze, even the damn blinds split open, lip after lip trembling crackling and popping, like leaves at unease; and when she turns away in sorrow, her face to the wall, the AC otherwise celibate, celebrates the moment, in excitement, in vigor, it revs up, becomes enticed, beleaguered it lets tumble, shooting forth from the wall, all its spiced electric juices, chilled but chaste, they rush to the sighs she has sung into the dawn; when she wails, the pale white paint chips crackles and rips, breaking like branches off the tree of ceiling: the dampness from which they peel is from the humidity of her tears; even though I like to believe that water-stains brought their demise, secretly I’ve known their pain: the paint is skinned and flayed because it reacts to her exclaims; when her silence hangs heavy, the dreary house fears infinity, cold invisible wraiths rumble, and silent electric snakes whisper, slithering uninvited; and death falls like dew, and breath becomes a recluse, and fear reigns in the stillness, and all this leaves the TV, no choice but to scream, out loud, intense, extreme, until volume loses its voice, and its throat goes hoarse, it becomes white noise, and the splotches of snow plead for her to bring back life, for her to once again please, speak. Please.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 34 | Fall 2011