A photo of dry ice fog on water.
Photo by Chantal & Ole / Unsplash

died so I looked online
and couldn’t believe the price

for a new noise, so I bought
a secondhand noise, deliverable

and like new. The noise arrived
on my windowsill

the next day in a box wrapped
with too much tape. I tore

each layer of the sticky plastic
like unwrapping a bandage.

The noise was delicate
as a small glass

of steam and ash.
The thing I liked most about

the secondhand noise
was how much it deepened

the sensation of walking
through the house

with a newfound
breeze. But I didn’t know

how loud my noise was.
I was breathing

like snoring
while awake.

When my neighbors
complained something heavy

was moving on the other side
of their wall, slamming doors

and knocking tables I got out
my noise, astounded again

by its hovering lightness
and said nothing.

Raymond Antrobus

Raymond Antrobus is a poet and Cave Canem graduate. His work has been published in Poetry, Lit Hub, The Guardian, The New York Times, and other outlets. He is the author of The Perseverance and All the Names Given.