hiraeth

Life is a circle, weaved
around fragments of her voice.
I keep entering an empty room;
drawn to the memory of her voice.

“Ghazal For Her Voice,” JP Howard

i hear her voice in
tiny taps on a birdfeeder
or in coughs late at night.
looming on the couch
no shoes, never crochet
thin thread cleaved,
just two rods;
two snakes. her
life is a circle, weaved.

cooking in vanilla-
splattered apron, no sash.
whistling with chickadees,
careful of barefeet
on sawdust floor.
no choice
to mid-morning movement.
the squirrels scatter
around fragments of her voice.

just echo’s now,
reverberations –
except when i find crows
dancing in dew,
or prick blood
from flowers in bloom.
dirt sticks between
craters in my fingers,
i keep entering an empty room.

the still air tastes
of gingersnap cookies:
burnt.
i grasp at crumbs,
follow the oblivion path.
ears filled with feathers,
steps tilted downward –
shaking, shivering,
drawn to the memory of her voice.