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