Speaking
of voices, I swallowed a voice,
once
mild and merry, laughing and singing.
I didn’t
detect the subtle undertones,
and clashing
overtones; it’s irony of intent.
This
voice knew not the theory of music;
a scale
or chord. It merely mocked.
And
I choked as it went down.
I
chased it with salt water.
I gargled
the notes, swishing them about
in
my throat. And the voice sank in.
It
planted its anchor, docked to shore,
and like
a pestilence, settled down to breed.
But
the voice is not welcome.
Blindly,
it has turned upon itself.
It
is disconnected and hangs glumly
by a
thread- a mere strand of tone.
Without
melody, forgetting words,
the voice
is all washed up. Ragged.
It
loses face, becoming dryly airborne,
and through
self consumption, dissipates.
Jennifer Burnside
