To Speak of White Spaces

i cannot speak
of the dying 

snake plant
in my room

devoid of all
forms of precision 

neither can i speak 
of the smell of rot  

emanating 
from here 

of the windows shut
for all kinds 

of gatekeeping—
darkness being

the only grace
i can face 

to be here ​​
and not have to look 

to see 
a fractured body

bending into itself 
with no need for a song 

i cannot speak 
of any of these 

the same way
i cannot speak 

of the quiet 
nestled between

two brothers 
suddenly left

alone
in a room 

one of whom
reaches for the door 

a reaching 
he trails after 

he learns of the other’s
queerness