I was at Read Wedding last night, a storytelling/poetry open mic night in Wedding, and part of the structure of the event is that in the final section, there will be a prompt taken from the poems in the first two sections, and then everyone has about 10 minutes or so to write a poem inspired by one or more of those prompts.

And then of course the open mic is still there for people who want to read the thing they just wrote.

I wrote something inspired by the prompt “My quiet is…”, and the whole thing was kind of a reference to an in-joke that the friend I was there with and I shared. After the 10 minutes or so were up, I went up and read my poem.

Last week, I was at my friend Jo’s art opening, and afterwards, she shared how she was sad that another friend who came to the show made no comment whatsoever about her work.

This poem I wrote, I essentially wrote for an audience of one. And when that one audience said absolutely nothing about it afterwards, I felt a certain way about it. Maybe a bit of dismay. Perhaps even some regret.

Maybe I should’ve just left after the second section, which is what I initially planned anyway. Or maybe it’s good that I wrote it, but I probably shouldn’t have read it.

Anyway, here’s the untitled poem from last night that I am now calling —

The Quiet in my Head

My quiet is warm
It’s fat and fluffy and juicy
Outside, sun-kissed like my skin
Inside, white like pepper
It rises as the day
And then it makes my day
In my mouth, five senses become one
The only thing I feel is the taste of it on my tongue
My quiet is soft
My quiet is far
My quiet is home
My quiet is the first bite of masa in the morning,
because when I’m eating, nothing else matters