This poem sprang out of our ‘voices’ Poetry ID workshop at the end of February. Thanks to Luisetta for sifting that topic from the ether that evening.
The first time I heard your voice
it touched me so closely
I almost hung up.
Who was this stranger who spoke to me?
My voice hid in the business of practical detail,
peering out from behind the leaves
newly aware of its nakedness.
Now we converse, sometimes
cloaked in familiarity,
sometimes skin on skin.
A poem from our writing workshop last night. Thanks to John Gohorry and the group for coming up with the stimulus.
Even though I know what ails me
I push on.
then the other.
One short breath.
Fingers clench, gnawing at each other.
Even my toes curl and squirm.
Across the road, trees huddled
in their winter coats of ivy
fumble in their pockets
for the woodwind notes of pigeons,
a secret code to summon the lost.
Children’s laughter floats
and is swallowed by silence.
There are no bells anymore.
Everything real is melted down
to fuel the virtual.