Cousin Raffi lives with a certain kind of silence,
not like my grandfather had,
not "war-related" silence

or silence that comes from not paying the bills
either. Not like the drive home
after the casino,

the blackjack, the withdrawal kind of silence,
not like my father after the tracks,
not an after silence at all

but rather a present kind of silence or a silence
like a present, always there -
the soft painting on the wall,

the nude man next to the staircase nobody notices
during dinner, the friends who stay late after dessert.
We think abut who's missing this year,

but then we laugh a lot at the turkey and the game
and we poke fun at the rear, who gets it
and the like, and when Robert

goes into their room to get the photos to show my mother
the kind that makes you remember just how long
you've known each other,

I think about my silences too, how they're not present
or after at all but, rather,
what they will become.