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.
