A Prevett

A New Kind of Quiet

I am seeking desperately a new kind
of quiet. One where I can drop a glintcoin from my palm
and even the coin will wonder where

it went. Like everything, I imagine this would be
within a room. That it would take a dark, carpeted tunnel
to get there. But oh, when I get there. There 

will be a piano and an anvil
that I will drop onto the piano. The noise it makes?
Gentle as a maggot

hatching from its sticky womb. After,
as one would a thin wafer, I will slip my coin
into my high-piled mouth, spend it
to buy the anvil

a better name. And each morning, it and I, we’ll
practice our soft, private language, the one
we’ll dress only our littlest fears in, new    
as grape dew, as a lost tooth’s absence.

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A Prevett (they/them) is the author of the chapbook Still, No Grace (Madhouse Press, 2021). Their recent poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming from West Branch, Fugue, Denver Quarterly and other journals. They are pursuing an MFA in poetry from Georgia State University, where they edit the journal New South. You can find them online at aprevett.com or on Twitter under the handle @a_prevett.