Page 27 - WTP Vol. VIII #4
P. 27
Mine
There was a time my voice said listen to me and its sound
revealed everything I was. Voice itself was material,
present in the room; it insisted on
my girlhood, that lilt with its southern harmony
pulling you in. I didn’t have to pay for the privilege of being able to draw you close.
In the crowded room, you’d lean in— with pleasure, not sympathy.
What rasp has muddied the waters. Beyond will and reach to clear my throat,
my voice wavers and sinks
until by the end of day I can’t find it.
A cloud covers it, a breath
blows through it. A thief waits in the dark.
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