Sediment

What silence is this
That stretches and drifts
Into the corners of the house
In eddies, swirling and burrowing
Into the filaments of life,
Gritty between toes and
Etching skin like jagged bone.

Should they let silence
Layer grain upon grain—
Hide behind dune swells,
Lit by a milky moon-wash?
They would be netted
By their own reticence.

Their house is silent,
Wrapped in the stillness
Of untouched clutter.
They have grown old.
What water once rushed the halls,
Filtered by its own frenzy,
Purified in a kind of frantic dance,
Now cools in patient stagnation.

The house is not scrubbed anymore,
Rubbed pink and giddy
By running feet.
They dab at it
When ketchup spills,
Or glass shatters.

The walls are growing moldy,
The sand climbing ever-higher.
Can they breathe?

A creeping mildew is softening the
Structure, secreting its issue
Through these deepening days.

Jessica Austin has a B.A. in English from the University of Virginia. She has work scheduled for publication in the online magazine 491 Neo-Naïve Imagination. She lives in Poquoson, Virginia (a modern-day fishing town sandwiched between water and marsh), with her husband, two young daughters, and one mischievous dachsund. She teaches English to secondary school students and hopes to obtain a master's degree in literature or writing.

Email: Jessica Austin

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