A new poem in a first draft. Shared on Poets United.
Every door has its voice and every voice
its moment in the singing bowl fashioned
from the year, the month, the minute.
Hear now that spring-loaded tongue kissing
the word ‘closed’ into a brass mouth. And
hear too the voice that calls, “I’m home!” and
the voice that answers, “We’re in the kitchen!”.
Ah, light that falls in bars, the smell of honeysuckle.
So hear too the voice that gasps its severance
from enclosure, mouth sucked open, jaw ajar,
and the voice that doesn’t call “Goodbye”.