No, I will not speak to you,
your head bent over pen and paper,
because I’ve felt the voiceless mouthing
of strange and foreign words
taking shape in the pit of my stomach
and coming to hide at the base of
thumbs, where there is no room for them.
That gnashing of sounds, the soft
the collaborative dead–
that pushes a pen faster, screaming
“You will miss it all!”
So I will not speak to you
for fear that the sound of my voice
may forever quieten the twin silences
of writing bodies.