At the turning point a big, swarthy man
came to me. He’d sung a song that only
he knew. An old spiritual. The poor’s
syncopated moans thumped against
the satin and flowers.
Here on the other side of the water
I am in a funk. Wallowing.
Song had began to fade.
In blithe contempt a body leaned
against wood. It was blue gray.
Prompt: Red Wolf Journal’s “Song of Myself” Spring/Summer 2016 edition released yesterday. That’s why song’s began to fade. Then of course a new song will come. It always does. They keep comin and comin till one dies. But to keep ’em from coming you can turn away. You muffle it. Then in a last gasp it dies. Write about loss of voice (losing heart) and whether it’ll ever come back in a poem.
losing my voice
to crows along the wall
haphazard choir warming up
to what was once your name
giving up all heart
to sheets wrestling on a pole
against the breeze
before falling to rest like a wave
between pages closing
in another book of dreams
memory has become
avowal’s true meaning
the two of us
that was once all of me
fading at last as I speak