Merie Kirby
YOUR VOICE IS THE INSTRUMENT YOU ALWAYS HAVE WITH YOU
i.
On vacation in a strange bed I lie
next to my child and whisper stories
about a dog, a dragon, the beach, and
ice cream - the ingredients he’s chosen—
and when the story is done I listen
to him breathe until I too slip
beneath the cover of sleep.
ii.
A voice starts in darkness,
in the hollow of your body.
What is it made of?
Blood, breath, water.
How does it travel?
On tongues of airy flame.
Where does it go? Into the air,
the ears, the hair of the world,
waves rolling out
without shore.
iii.
End of seventh grade
choir teacher
asks me
not to sign up
for choir next year
bus driver
sends me
to the back
to protect her ears
from my laughter.
iv.
I’m so glad, the woman says,
that I’ve talked to you
on the phone, because now
when I read your emails
I hear them
in your voice.
v.
My brothers remember
I sang them to sleep.
Even after a day of arguments
and misunderstandings
I sang about babies fishing
for dreams, boys growing up,
about chickens without bones
and cherries without stones,
about swallows and blackbirds
and the river Afton,
about being lost and found
by sweet sounds
standing in the dark,
filling the air.