I got an A on the third quiz in American history,
an A,
dammit.
Last time I got a B
up from a C
and my father said,
"if you can get a C
you can get a B,
if you can get a B
you can get an A."-
I got an A
and my father said,
"grades don't mean anything.

Yaicha is named after a song
by some group from the last century called the
Pousette-Dart Band.

Something about a girl,
a candle in the falling rain
shining amidst the pain.
I kind of surprise myself
when I can picture Yaicha as that candle.

My father named Yaicha after the "haunting melody."

I wonder if he ever listened
to the lyrics.

Yaicha runs.

He sits down, tired,
and says to mom,
"I'm sorry you had to see that."

Inevitable that he does it.

But he doesn't really want
a witness.

I am always there.
But they don't care if I am
because I am furniture.

I don't get hit
I don't get fondled
I don't get love
because I am furniture

Suits me fine.

Then
why don't I tell on him?

If they don't,
why don't I?

Because.

Because I am safe this way,
silent
unnoticed.

The foam cushions
on the old couch downstairs
disintegrate
daily
in a hush,
like each of us,

small flecks of
hardening puffs
raining mute to the floor
when I flop down to study.

And the more the couch gets used,
the less foam it keeps--

someday
just an uncomfortable frame,
springs and other inner workings
exposed.

Silent.