my voice

after patsy alford's poem, warning


My voice is the screech,

the howl of Lilith

as she moves

through the garden.

My voice is the dandelion,

the spot of yellow,

gracing your front lawn.

My voice is the whine,

the break-neck spin

of tires along Fortune Drive.

My voice,

my voice,

my voice

is weeping.


My voice is the twang

of Alison Krauss

and the rough Birch bark

cackle of Kris Delmhorst.

My voice is a CRF450 Honda,

and riding it is like wrestling

a rhinoceros in the grasslands

of the Thompson River.

My voice is Muddy Waters’ blues guitar.

My voice is Minny Mouse

when she’s had too many

Bloody Marys and is standing

on the table inhaling helium

from birthday balloons.

My voice is drunk

and out of control.

My voice is weeping.


My voice is the spire

of the Space Needle,

the docks of Ballard,

the waves of Vashon,

the Bainbridge Ferry

moving past Little New York.

My voice is a broke down

Volvo on the I-5.

My voice is weeping.


My voice is a tart, sour candy.

My voice is a strand

of red hair being carried

off in the beak of a crow.

My voice burns all bridges.

My voice is an accident

waiting to happen.

My voice is an arsonist

and has left a wasteland in its wake.

My voice is weeping.


My voice makes mistakes

as if they’re valued commodities.

My voice is a thief

in the broadness of daylight,

sunshine on the dark,

punk crown of her head

and her bag from Value Village

stuffed to bursting.

My voice renounces,

it redeems,

it massages,

it desires.

My voice is the quilt

made for my grandmother’s wedding day.

My voice is weeping.


My voice is the door slamming,

it’s the shadow against the sand,

it’s the bells ringing on Sunday morning,

it’s beckoning. My voice is beckoning,

my voice is calling, my voice is wanting,

my voice is imploring, imploring, beckoning,

my voice

is in love.

My voice is in love

with you.

My voice is in love,

and it’s weeping.


My voice,

my voice

is weeping.