The Wrath of Yo-Yo Ma

In space, no one can hear

you scream. In space, there is no

need to. Only humans make us

shriek. Well, the occasional bear

and shark, perhaps. But they’re not

up in the cosmos.

Silence does not speak louder

than any word. Silence

can’t even speak louder

than silence. If it could,

you’d be donning

earbuds in the forest,

banging to Iron Maiden

in order to drown the

din of leaves, the streams of

rock, translucence.

The way a hummingbird

stays aloft. We cannot make

a plane that doesn’t thunder.

Yet we say we are the masters of

the air.

The stealth is not as tongue-

tied as they say. Listen to its bombs

upon the city. The clap of

severed hands.

You cannot mute a sob.

The tug of a single tissue

from its box. Clamorous,

like the crunching of Tostitos

through the cellist’s

adagio. Is the salsa really

worth it? The paprika

that makes you sneeze?

A hundred pairs of

eyes that murder softly.

Their raging, quiet stare.

Andreas Gripp

January 18, 2026

photo by Andy Mettler