This is more than aftershock;
the jet overhead
its sonic clamor
is neurological poison.
My aunt beneath the table,
behind the cold stove,
rolled up with the towels
on the closet floor.
Even if a pin drops says
my uncle, his eyes cast in secrets
brows lifting heavenward
body plunging down
an imitation of other arms
he clothes her head,
she stomaches her knees
my uncle’s lips sing
a descending tune
into the silence boom.