Juices Flowing

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