By Christina Hennemann
Why did you open your mouth?
The tomatoes in the backyard
remained green all summer.
Why did you inhale?
The wind carried desert through the open
window, left a hazy cover on the bookshelf.
Why didn’t you speak?
Birds don’t nest in water butts,
they shit on the lid as if cacophonising.
Why did you close your mouth?
Against the falling rain crept worms
and weeds, the window was closed.
Why did you swallow?
Forever is a gluttonous word,
nobody hangs white clothes on the line.