a thousand mouths of stone

a poem by Lin Xia

Painting by Barbara Kroll

the first cave spat me out

but it was not freedom:

only a hallway lined with more caves,

each one waiting with its own silence,

its own sharp-edged darkness.

i thought leaving once would mean leaving forever.

but the streets were just wider caves,

their walls made of stares

that slid off me like knives.

every polite smile carried

the weight of not here.

not in their voices,

not in their homes,

not in their yards.

the word queer sat in my mouth

like something forbidden,

sweet and heavy all at once.

i let it out once..

just once–

and watched it shatter against their faces,

their silence dressed up as concern.

are you sure?

maybe you just haven’t met the right boy.

maybe don’t tell the grandparents.

i spoke anyway,

but my words fell through them,

soft as ash.

they nodded,

already looking past me,

as if listening was

a favor they were tired of giving.

the caves multiplied.

some were built from silence,

some from kindness that cut sideways.

each one had the same air–

thin, stale,

pressed tight against my lungs

until i learned to breathe less,

to love quieter,

to hold her hand only in the dark.

progress, they called it.

but progress was just a prettier cave,

a ceiling painted brighter

so no one would see

how low it still hung.

i stopped counting.

the caves blurred into one another,

a thousand mouths of stone,

each one waiting

to swallow the sound of me.