the quiet before

i'd rather shoot myself, she said, than
live here, whispering at the young couple
who had just moved in and now stood
behind their new home, staring at the stream
that moved a stones throw away.
they think it's Shangri la, she said.
here happened to be your house,
your neighborhood, but she didn't
understand or think that such words
could sting, or hurt someone. I wanted
to say, I feel the same way about where
you live, in a run down patch
of houses, deep in the woods, snakes,
rusted washing machines in every other yard,
the ancient cars on blocks,
not even a paved road, the falling
trees every time it rained or the wind blew.
driving ten miles to get a quart
of milk, or a cup of coffee. you bit
your bloodied tongue and moved on.
silence seemed to be the best
choice of communication between you two.
nothing was ever discussed. not the issues
with sex, or money, tomorrow, if there
was to be a tomorrow.
less communication was the glue that
stuck you both together, a quiet
before a storm that never quite arrived.