“Selective mute,” you call me.
Listening more than I speak.
I watch and wait in studious silence,
Hear your thoughts before they're said.
Baited breath, edge of my seat –
Your tongues are duller than they seem to think,
And yet I remain silent.
Perhaps I am only biding my time;
Trying to find the right moment,
When I –
Weak and fragile beast as though I may be –
Discover the words I need.
The words to illuminate what you have wrought,
To rip away that thin veil
strip by cheaply-woven strip.
Perhaps I am only searching for the opportune moment
To reveal the damage you have done
And the pain you have dealt;
To show the deep bruises shown
red and blue in the darkness;
To prove that you were the one doing the treading.
They say I am selectively mute.
The wise have something to say,
The ignorant have to say something.
I watched a man in a white pick-up truck call the police on a couple of young people of color who were angry because his PEACOCKS had attacked their cat and I thought I should think about that for a second. Then I decided that maybe I should do more than think about it, but what are you to do when the people who you are supposed to be the ones you call upon for help are the ones doing the harm? Whatever are we meant to do?
