Two wooden ducks
sit on display,
on a yellowing cabinet
in the hallway.
Laid beak to beak–
the bride painted red,
the groom in blue,
each one’s unique.

The child likes to play;
to pick and pluck
the red ties on the beak
of the bride duck.
The color
       of bloodshot eyes
      and weary cheeks,
the ribbon ensures–
      silence.
An obsolete belief
that a bill tied
is a quiet bride
obedient–
and wide-eyed.

There are often earthquakes
in this house.
They begin with tremors;
an angry spouse–
      a quiver of a cry
      waiting to roar,
      then a harsh sigh
      and a slam of the door.

It’s important to know
that a single wall
does not muffle well;
a child hears all–
every scream and every yell.

      Oh, it’s a living hell.

The cabinet
begins to rumble
and the wooden pair
start to tremble–
back
            and
                         forth
they rock,
then–
      CRASH
on the floor
intact–
but cracked.

Now two ducks lie
tail to tail,
one still red,
the other still blue.

The aftershocks are last;
      it’s a quiet home
      for quite a while.

The child bends
and with two small hands
she holds the ducks
against her chest.

We’ll be okay,
the child used to say,
but today,
it’s dead silent
as she places them back.

One day,
there will be
too many cracks,
too many parts
but only
two small hands
to put them back together.

But for now,
the child drops
to the floor,
knees to her chest
she stays–
shaking,
sniffling,
staring at the ducks
to be there
when they fall.