I lost my voice three times that season

 I lost my voice three times that season,

my words coarsed like the edge of a page.

What, then, was the meaning of them? It doesn't

matter now. I loved

that people would ask me,

 

"How did you lose your voice?

Did you go to a concert?"

 

(There was an implied mystery,

and poets love mystery.)

 

They were right, of course --

I was a member of the most important audience

there is.

 

I went to concerts, and many places besides.

I stayed up, bobbing in Brazilian blue waters until sunrise,

trying to understand my new lover

in his native tongue. I rose-blushed in the sun

and let the blooms burst through my throat,

welcoming the pleasure.

 

I drove through canyons and dug out quartz.

I had an orgasm, I had an orgasm, I had an orgasm.

I wore my flesh like a wedding gown.

 

My voice rose on shaky feet to praise

youth and ecstasy, the time passing

through our collective savoring. The pleasure poured out of me

like wine, and I didn't mind

that I lost my voice three times

that season. 

© 2024. This work is openly licensed via CC BY-NC-ND.