Mother

A poem about being a singer, and the art of producing sound.

there’s life in my esophagus.

Sometimes I don’t let her live—I just stuff her away until it’s appropriate.

Appropriate to live! Isn’t that odd.

There’s life in my soul, wanting to speak

wanting to fly out in sound waves

like so many birds flying toward the sun.

I’m so cold and so shriveled--!

How can one as faulty as me make magic like that?

But she’s there.

Waiting at my most vulnerable, human spot,

waiting for when I’ll let her out,

when I’ll let her fly

let her sing

and then she can be free, free from the prison of flesh

from which she was born.

Free like the sun over the ocean, free like light beams warming skin.

Even unloved and alone,

even one such as I

can understand the joy of being a Mother—

I live only to bring her into the world.