Top o' Mornin' To Ya: muted by Jessica Bell

Concetta depresses
an aluminum slat
of blind
with her forefinger and
gazes into the street,
numb to the snap
of solitude.
Bare feet pass
by her shoebox window
broken, at eye-level,
thriving on nude routine.
She stifles a yawn
and clicks her tongue
in the rear of her cheek
to deactivate
the alarm chip
embedded
into her cochlea,
illegally programmed
with thirty seconds
of her own voice.
The voice she had
before being sentenced
to a life
of silence
..............for wearing clothes
..........................and singing
a cappella
in an ‘instrumental zone.’
She wasn’t
even busking
that day,
but on route to
an interview
to be the Queen’s
personal music box.
The Queen
is a man
with five fingers and toes.
Newborns only have four.
She swallows
a build-up
of thyme-flavoured saliva
from the tea she drinks
to soothe her throat
and buckles
in pain.
The immune
assistants strapped her to
a chair, forced
her mouth
open
and slashed
her vocal chords.
Surgically
perforated
her eardrums.
The taste of toxic sweat
still lingers on her gums
even more than the memory
of torturers’ penises
rubbing against
her blindfolded face
and ejaculating
into her wounds.
Now
all she hears
is the numb rush
of water in her ears ...
fit to drown
in,
sink
in,