What a Silly Thing You Did
by Shaun Terry
What a silly thing she said.
Her face shrunk,
and each of its constituents met in the middle.
It made me think of warriors’ trophies,
as described by anthropologists and history teachers.
And the sounds that came from her mouth
sounded like the shrill sounds
you hear in YouTube videos
when you enter “jungle animals.”
And her skin turned the color of egg shells,
marked by tiny bubbles;
and she convulsed, cracked, like James Brown. “Unh!”
“Hate” sounds nothing like “love,” my dear.
But it’s funny that hate, sometimes, sounds like love.
The crowd rumbled,
producing the gentle roar of an ocean,
ebbing and flowing;
an ocean of despair and solemn warning.
What a silly thing they say.
My toes crunched together,
and I slowly slid across the floor.
My arms waved, wildly,
in the pattern of a frantic blind person’s cane,
as it probes for unwelcome surprises.
I could hear your shrill sounds, again,
and they felt like 1970s Jazz,
slowly, softly smothering me.
I followed your voice,
down one hall, through another,
to a dark, loud room.
And that’s when you killed me –
you said, “I’m sorry, and I love you,”
and you walked away,
making that terrible noise again.