Voice

The voice is mine and yet not, I have nurtured it, both goaded, and placated it, until its tongue is as liquid as molten silver. It is not human, never was. It came to me as a stray dog would, though it is more a bird than canine, for it will fly up into my throat. without any help from my mind. Perhaps it is that fabled muse, yet it is also, a hag and a crone, sometimes a sweet-faced harlot. I cannot count its many faces. It is a male wolf, a stag in the wilderness, its call is a summons for my ghost to speak, to feast upon the vapor of a blood script. Gentled am I, made meek and mild, A mute angel roams my earth, it hunts for white doves. The captured birds are taught to mark scratches upon a plasmid velum, symbols that utter the un-utterable. I have this strange-strangers voice, I have a hollow stem that rises up to pierce a deep inward sky, what it will say next, what it has now said, and what I am now, only the voice knows.