The Weight of the Word

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

He holds the word like the smooth belly
of a clay pot still warm from the fire—
confidential—a syllable he folds
like laundry in the quiet of 3 a.m.,
not because he’s afraid of light,
but because some things collapse
when exposed too soon to sun.

It was never his to begin with—
it arrived like a sealed envelope
on the kitchen table, beside a chipped cup,
his name written in blue ink,
slanted like someone in a hurry
to be precise.

Now, voices press like steam
against his bathroom mirror,
fogging him into shape.
They want him to peel silence
from his lips like dried glue,
they say his hush is a shelter
for the guilty.

But he knows
there’s a difference
between hiding
and holding.

They don’t see
how a promise
is sometimes a pair of hands
stopping a plate from falling.

They don’t know the gravity
of carrying a name
like a candle you must not let flicker
even when wind
insists on testing you.

He is not dishonest.
Only loyal
to the thing
that asked him to wait.

Let them call him traitor.
Let their mouths work like hinges
rusted from use.

He will not speak.
He will remain the keeper
of an unopened drawer
in a house still standing
because someone, somewhere,
refused to let the lock go soft.