Everything’s under suspicion:
the gray clouds, the rust-colored trees.
Muffled sounds from the television,
and parents glued to every word, as though
its speech were personal, were meant for them.
No one has a right to speak. When the child
comes home, trembling from the rain, chin straps
and galoshes, he is left alone, then sent
to his room. This man who dictates everything,
who fears all those unlike himself, won’t
let you out. The man who yells at mother,
whose body sinks into the couch, rises up
in anger when you speak. This enclosure
of the past, this atmosphere, this anger
you cannot express. But the rain that penetrates
the body’s oil leaves a chill,
and years later there’s still a shiver
that shapes the trees in winter, and yourself
locked in a room, the sheen of memory,
mastered by the past, skilled in speechlessness.
The Mc Carthy Hearings
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