He opened his mouth to speak, but she shushed him,
said she wanted to love him, said she didn't want to lose him.
It was a sound he heard too many times a day.

"shh don't talk about death.
I know you miss your mom, but talking about it makes me sad"
"shh I didn't sleep much last night, please let me rest"
"shh don't say a word; I already know"

He was boxed in tighter and told to be quieter
until there was a six inch gap between his organs and his ribs.

She wanted him to be a glazed bowl in their upstairs kitchen.
She didn't need his hair pulling at the stars.

He wanted to be reshaped,
but once clay's thrown in the kiln it doesn't know how to knead itself.