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Poetry

I sing for fear I’ll hear the still
small voice and not like what it says.
I croon to make my skull full

as a squat hive and the honey
is my cracked song, my sting in the throat.
O I know a bee is not a melody

but I must come to terms with what
it is that leaves me hoarse
that keeps my house awake all night.

The one I love mouths we are lost
behind my back, which means nothing,
but this is what I fear the most.

Listen. The unsung is unuttering,
sucking back into itself,
the inverse of words, an unworn ring.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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