IV (from To Cross This Distance)
by Jamie Saenz

The immense malaise cast by shadows, the melancholic visions surging from the night,
everything terrifying, everything cruel, that without reason, that without name,
one has to take it, who knows why.
If you have nothing to eat but garbage, don’t say a word.
If the garbage makes you sick, don’t say a word.
If they cut off your feet, if they boil your hands, if your tongue rots, if your spine splits in two, if your soul fines down to nothing, don’t say a word.
If they poison you, don’t say a word, even if your bowels slide from your mouth and your hair stands straight up; even if your eyes well with blood, don’t say a word.
If you feel good, don’t feel good. If you fall behind, don’t fall behind. If you die,
don’t die. If you’re sad, don’t be sad. Don’t say a word.
Living is hard; it’s hard work not to say a word.
Putting up with people without saying a word is tough.
It’s very hard—inasmuch as they expect to be understood without saying a word—
to understand people without saying a word.
It’s terribly difficult yet very easy to be a decent person;
the truly difficult thing is not to say a word.