The sound of my bones
is low-toned and basic, a throb learning to echo
through my skin. In the marrow, ache is soft and
spiralled. I learn to transfix on its helix. Some days
they’re all I can think about, how they never felt
new until they weren’t, how they’ve archived
my lineage with a wild imprecision, how they’ve
listened patiently to all the things we seemed.
They know that rape is the sound of an ice-cream
van calling through distance I couldn’t measure,
daylight through unkempt trees, the snap of twigs
and leaves, crisp packets and a rusting coke can,
rows of terraced houses bringing their children in
for tea. They know it’s the silence of the things we
never said, and the mundane things we did.