Perhaps Gandhi? Maybe Plato?

Possibly a Quaker founder?

I do not know who originated

the saying, “Speak only

if you can improve the

silence.”

But I know someone special

who embodies this expression.

My loved one’s furrowed brow

and outstretched hands speak

volumes amid her

silence.

Her empathy is a language

that manifests on her body

and needs no interpreter.

“I want to help you, but how?”

she tells me in her fervent

silence.

I wish I could reply to her

but I do not know the answer

much less the vocabulary

to approximate her fluency.

So I shrug and keep my

silence.

This is for the people

Locked inside their head…

Living in a jail cell

Without a piece of bread…

This is for the people

Who can't express their pain…

To them the world looks vicious!…

And a desperate act seems sane…

Watch them writhing in the spill…

Stretching with the oils…

Twisting while the faces bleed…

Mixed with bits of soil…

This is for the homeless

That are dying and ignored…

That cold eyes cease to recognize

As we stress to make our score…

Humanity is in our eyes…

Humanity’s in theirs…

There is no us and them at all…

And no one will be spared…

If you find any chance to shine

And pass around your light…

There could be a place for you

Somewhere in this night…

This is for the missing ones…

Once captured in mad lust…

This is for the bodies piling…

Eyeballs in the bush…

Living in the echo halls…

This is for the dead…

This is for the yesterdays…

The endings that we dread

Find me in the masquerade…

See me in the show…

We are watching scenes in wax…

Knowing what we know….

This is for the people

Locked inside their head…

Living in a jail cell

Without a piece of bread…

This is for the people

Who can't express their pain…

To them the world looks vicious!…

And a desperate act seems sane…

3/22/25

Bunny Villaire

I will not give in to convention

I will deny your good intention

I will not live in your delusion

I will cause you endless confusion

I will not give in and pretend to be

I will be different than you want to see

I will not live in your perfect existence

I will struggle but don't need your assistance

She was an object

She was his

To keep

To mistreat

Once he flew into

a jealous rage

Pinned her against the wall

And stuck his hand

Between her legs

Because he wanted

To “check”

If she had been

Unfaithful

While she was at work

Because he could tell

He would yell

In her face

“Whore”

And she believed

This was normal

Normal boyfriend behavior

And he only acted that way

Because he loved her

Loved her so much

And technically, it was her fault

For making him jealous

For making him act out

But she was only an object

That didn't know

Any better

If you must object,

do it loudly.

Do not let your voice

become another object,

set aside, forgotten,

collecting dust.

As a teen

Before I open the side door

to enter my modest home,

I remove both my sneakers,

turn them upside down, shake them,

and watch the warm, dirty sand

pour down like a tipped hourglass.

The granular souvenir

of my visit to the beach

settles on a flower bed,

soon to be blown away

and forgotten. Good riddance.

In old age

Wistfully I peer out the window

of my assisted living home.

I remove both my slippers,

turn them upside down, shake them,

and imagine that I see sand

pour down like a tipped hourglass.

The granular memory

of my visit to the beach

as a young man is fading

and getting harder to recall.

Please, God, don’t let me forget.

I am realizing I don't want to talk to my Dad because I don't understand what he sees. I don't know what I look like in his eyes. I can only remember what I looked like in the mirror that morning. I can only guess what name crosses through his mind. I barely understand what he sees in my face when he says I look tired and everything but that is true. I don't understand. I don't understand what he sees. I'm so used to analyzing other people, gathering their view of the world then emulating it in myself that when I don't know what he's thinking my whole personality crumbles. I feel uncomfetable and I don't know how I'm supposed to act, what stereotyoe I need to fill for them to ignore me so I can disappear into the background. I don't know... I need help and I have no where to go, no one who knows the truth and I don't have nearly enough confidence to burden someone else with what's on my mind. So here I am, writing on prose, to an audience I will never know because it is easy for them to dismiss me and for me to do the same in turn. Here, I don't have to pretend in order to disappear into the background. It happens by itself.

I never meant to fall in love with Maurice. Who does? He was just another subject in my primatology research, a particularly clever orangutan at the Borneo Wildlife Sanctuary where I'd been studying great ape intelligence for the past three years. But life has a way of surprising you, doesn't it?

It started with his eyes. Unlike the other orangutans, Maurice would look directly at me during our cognitive tests, his amber irises reflecting a depth of understanding that unnerved me at first. While his peers would grab randomly at the memory cards or give up after a few tries, Maurice would study each pattern methodically, his weathered fingers hovering over the options before making his choice. His success rate was unprecedented.

"Dr. Chen," my research partner Sarah would say, "you're spending an awful lot of time with Subject 23." That was Maurice's official designation, though I'd named him after my favorite author, Maurice Sendak. "The other subjects need attention too."

But I couldn't help it. Maurice had a way of communicating that transcended our species barrier. He'd learned to use the tablet we'd provided for enrichment activities, and while other orangutans treated it as a toy, Maurice used it purposefully. He'd point to images of food when hungry, or to pictures of his outdoor enclosure when he wanted exercise. One rainy afternoon, he even pulled up a photo of an umbrella and pointed at me before I left for the day. I still remember standing in the downpour, laughing at my own stubbornness for not heeding his warning.

The watershed moment came during a thunderstorm that frightened most of the sanctuary's residents. While other orangutans sought comfort in their sleeping areas, Maurice stayed in his observation area. As lightning illuminated the research center, I found him pressed against the glass, watching the sky with fascination. When I approached, he placed his palm against the barrier. Without thinking, I placed mine against it too.

The warmth of his hand through the glass sent an unexpected jolt through me. In that moment, I recognized something I'd been denying for months: I had developed feelings for Maurice that went far beyond scientific interest or even friendship. It wasn't romantic love – I wasn't delusional – but it was love nonetheless. A deep, profound connection with another conscious being who, despite our differences, shared my curiosity about the world and my capacity for emotional attachment.

My colleagues noticed the change in me. There were whispers about compromised objectivity and the need for professional distance. Sarah suggested I take a break from the research center. "You're too emotionally invested," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "It's affecting your work."

She was right, of course. I'd stopped seeing Maurice as a research subject and started seeing him as... what? A friend? A kindred spirit? The lines had blurred beyond recognition. When I looked at him, I no longer saw data points or behavioral patterns. I saw someone who understood loneliness, joy, and the simple pleasure of watching rain fall from a safe place.

The decision to transfer to another research facility wasn't easy, but it was necessary. On my last day, Maurice seemed to sense something was different. He refused to participate in the cognitive tests, instead sitting quietly by the glass barrier, his eyes following my every move. When it was time to leave, I placed my palm against the glass one final time. He matched it with his own, and we stayed that way for several minutes.

As I walked away, I heard him tap on the glass – three distinct knocks, our secret signal for "goodbye." I didn't turn around. I couldn't. But I raised my hand and tapped my clipboard three times in response.

Years have passed since then. I've continued my research at other facilities, published papers, and advanced our understanding of primate cognition. But I've never formed another connection like the one I shared with Maurice. Sometimes, during thunderstorms, I find myself pressing my palm against windows, remembering those moments when species and science fell away, leaving only the pure, inexplicable bond between two sentient beings who found understanding in each other's eyes.

Some might call it inappropriate or unprofessional, this love I developed for a research subject. Perhaps they're right. But in a world increasingly divided by differences, perhaps there's something to be learned from the heart's capacity to reach across the boundaries we create. Maurice taught me that love, in its purest form, doesn't recognize species or status. It simply is.

And sometimes, that's enough.