the vacuum hums,
and i feel it in my chest—
a restless kind of anger,
like a match about to strike.

maybe it’s because the sound
reminds me of yelling,
of my mom’s voice tearing
through the air like it had teeth.
when i hear it now,
i want to scream back,
but there’s no one here to blame.

the only time i can stand it
is when my hands are on the handle,
when i’m in control of the noise.
maybe that’s the metaphor:
it’s not the sound,
but the power to make it stop.

Gunboat diplomacy
Dynamite archeology
Unnecessary surgery
The way we mince our words
Virtual friends and views
Terrible ends
We refuse
To see as nothing
That could happen to us
As conflagration moves like water
Over an acrylic floor
Which morphs into a globe form
To welcome in the war.