Jill Chan has published two books of poetry, The Smell of Oranges (Earl of Seacliff Art Workshop, 2003) and Telling Them Apart (Daedalus, 2005).  She maintains a blog and is based in Auckland, New Zealand.

I know a woman who wouldn’t talk.
She would try
to break the silence by twisting it,
lifting it up over her head,
and dropping it on the floor.
But still no sound.

She tried cutting it up,
sometimes even holding
the scissors
like a knife
and stabbing it.
It bled but a 0 before her,
still silent.
It knows time doesn’t matter.

She’s been silent for centuries
before she was born.
If she pulls the trigger on it,
it just closes its eyes.
Death is of no importance to it.
She is ready to stay silent forever,
clutching it close to her,
even eating it for dinner.

She is ready to stay silent forever,
talking with her eyes,
playing with a thought
like a snow covered sidewalk.

There’s a cat
pissing on its tail
and she’s silent.

A stranger
tries to take it away from her.
She fights with him,
grabbing it, tearing it.

Silence is wound.

It cries like a wound
would cry
if it were silent all its life.

© Jill Chan 2006.