Compressor

This new kitchen is too quiet. No, that’s wrong.

It’s full of a sound I can’t quite name,

a mechanical grinding, like the building is chewing its own tongue.

The fridge is doing that thing again where it shudders.

The jar of pickles on the second shelf—

the one with the rusted lid I can’t open—

it’s vibrating against the metal rack.

A frantic, tiny, glass-on-metal chatter.

Then, the compressor cuts out. A sudden drop.

The silence is so heavy I can feel it in my molars.

I have to hum a low, shaky note

just to make sure the air hasn't turned to stone.