Kevin Casey

Your Mild Misophonia


There’s no need
for name-calling
or voice-raising --
the plastic clicks
as an almond
slips from the sleeve
I tip while you
pretend to read
upon our sofa.

The crisp ripples
shift the hammer
across your anvil—
barely, but enough.

And then the umber
teardrop is crushed
and rolled among
molars, softened
with choler
and vitriol.
The concussive, 
grinding waves
seem to breathe
inside your mind, 
with an intimacy
that enrages.