Somewhere in the Silence Somewhere in the silence, like a remnant of silk in a clenched fist, my cicada wings buzzed, my moth brain burned. I thought I could fly to the sound of your name, but my toes grew roots with tendrils, and the moon frowned in disapproval. I opened my mouth to scream, when out came the buzz of a mosquito. A minor annoyance, or so I thought. Then every time I opened my jaw, out popped a hiss or hum or murmur or purr, and soon I was swarmed with sounds. If I could reach with a net and catch these things, these whispers, this whirring, these words, if I could lasso a cluster of them altogether, would they spell your name, in hieroglyphics? Or would they tell me of my negligence. That I am burning the food of the poor, while I sit and enjoy my leisure? The thought stings me back to the symmetry of the moon, and her silence. ©Jillian Parker