This is their method of extracting
our stories. First, the isolation.
Where it is still and quiet, questions are
asked. The process is done
and repeated: a tip of the chin, a click
of the tongue, a slick
look from the side, sweeps past
your eyes. Twice over, if
you fail to deliver
the truth. Then, here, still
us, quiet, the way words unspoken are loud.
We all know that by now.
What are you afraid of? If this is
the way our bodies emerge from underneath
blankets and dim lights. The will
of the flesh, our breath, our mouths;
our travels down south. The paradise
we know destroyed by fear?
The narrative of the consequence,
is yet to be made. Still, there will be
you and me. Our stories known or not.
Take my hand under the table, they’ll ask
you again. This time, keep
the secret pressed between our palms.
Slip it beneath our skins, we will
never let them in.
**Again, without much thought.