That Thing

No word rhymes with silence, or tries to.
No word wants to visit that furtive backyard garden.

Silence is the word that will not be spoken-
After all, who can pronounce it? Once spoken,

We will not hear it. It is the story not told,
The memory carefully unspoken in this house,

Your house. Silenceis the place underneath language
An unto-itself, an army

Stronger than words, more patient,
Bigger than the dictionary.

Its weapons are familiar,
Painful, without antidote and giving of no respite.

Quiet tells us it iscoming, and so, too,
Quiet is tolerated, left to be, undisturbed at its work,

Silence's grim reaper, allowed only to make deliveries,
To fill the bins, to cut the grass, eat if it needs to,

Then expected to leave, quickly, cleanly,
No trace afterward, no errant grass cuttings,

No black from the bottom of its shoes on the floor.
Good bye, we say, and in saying

Mispronounce its name, but happy not to know,
Ready not to ask. Good-bye, we say, and mean it.