what she wouldn’t tell:

by D. Walsh Gilbert

That the silence of rural woodlands

was louder than any city sirens,

and crickets scared her. Her sisters

had been pulled from her as surely

as the moon pulls the tides. And tidal

pools trap sand crabs which require

salt water to survive.

That her man in dress uniform wanted

her to spit shine his leather shoes

and lately, she’d been using tears.

That lately, she was drowning, her only

lifeboat the cellophane wrapped around

a package of Pall Malls. And at the end

of her cigarette, all she had was ash.

That there was something heavy on her

heart, the weight of it hidden in her

breast. That it was the worm in the apple

she’d promised to feed her man. That it

routed through her, intent on absence,

chewing as it went along. No map at all.

That women die from a million small bites.

A dual citizen of the US and Ireland, D. Walsh Gilbert lives in Farmington, Connecticut on a former sheep farm at the foot of Talcott Mountain, previous homelands of the Tunxis peoples. She’s the author of six books of poetry, the most recent, Finches in Kilmainham (Grayson Books). She serves with Riverwood Poetry Series and is co-editor of Connecticut River Review.