You say through our eyes,
“If you’re awesome you will go up this big hill.”

I say through our manservant,
“You can’t yet says the words
I wants to hears from my own mouth.”

You say through our hole in our final French cruller,
“I think I will able to function just fine
spending the majority of the day
on a plank laid across a wooden box.”

I say through our cord to our sewing machine
wrapped over and around into a bow,
“Sitting at a single horseshoe table, you make
a pattern of raspberries and blueberries
that looks vaguely like a crude airplane, but
then add a steering wheel to each of the children.”

You say through our curl of our long strip of paper on the floor,
“A carpeted ding-dong feels good on my toes.”

I say through our cigarette burn in our laminated,
cigarette-burned map of Southern Ohio,
“There are 37 ingredients in Twinkies and
14 of them are made with Federal subsidies.”

And so it goes.

For this is what we don’t talk about when we
don’t talk about what it is that we talk about when
we don’t talk about the thing we don’t talk about.