Voice Cracks — A Dream

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“Cracks” — C.Birde, 11/19

 

Hear,

overhead,

his heels fall –

like iron mauls –

against the floor.

Hear him rage

and roar.

His fury –

unleashed,

unfocused,

unfettered

tumbles headlong

down the stairs,

bruised,

concussed,

wounded.

How long

can this continue?

can he maintain such

fiery wrath?

How does the ceiling

not crack?

his feet not break through

both plaster and

lath?

“Tell him.

She speaks from across

the kitchen’s tiles,

from the safety

of self-imposed exile,

where,

with studied care,

she avoids your eye.

Tell him how

he makes you feel.”

In a breath,

in a beat

he is there.

Toe to your toes,

towering and tall,

from roiling anger,

looming;

and all words have

vanished,

swallowed up

in a gasp,

in a gulp.

Wounded,

concussed,

bruised.

Tell him.

 Tell him.

What she could not

and never would.

That his anger –

unfettered,

unfocused,

unleashed

returns you

to fearful daze

of childhood;

that his roar blinds

and numbs and

strips away all

thought.

Choose

your words with care

and, while so choosing,

realize, of a sudden,

the surrounding,

enveloping

silence.

Realize

you have found,

at last, your voice,

and have already

spoken.

 

 

— C.Birde, 11/19

 

 

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