Throwing Your Voice
Throw, and in the letting go
you are three fishermen:
one unspooling, paying line;
another, older, letting it run...
Watch your breath careen,
moth across the car park,
a room dim-lit like this –
dark glass somewhere else –
and find yourself behind the ear,
the lobe, the listened for:
a child again –
sitting on the bait box,
hands cupped for the catch.
The night before your mother’s death
you write to packed pews in your head:
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