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POETRY
She never heard me sing
before the birth of the first vowel (poems in times of Covid)
she never heard me sing. she never. since my voice
was muzzled and I couldn’t help but gasp for air.
the springtide was fair like a maiden in waiting
and there legit was no one to sit in the frosty bel-air.
but I thrived in that unseated space. and connected
way more than when growing connections was in.
and I learned how to speak and to turn and to spin
but I never went smooth like a quiver when stroking
the wings of my blue violin. and she waited. so long.
and each time when the end of us being confined
came in sight we would nod and agree that confining
was right. and we longed. because there was the peace.
under the mulchy borders of our fern garden. where
fiddleheads are fresh and crispy. long before the birth
of the first vowel.
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