UNTITLED TYPEWRITER POEM NO. NINE

9

Imagine,
for a moment,
that every voice,
every last goodbye,
every first cry,
every whispered “hello, beautiful”
when lovers’ eyes are still closed,
every beat of every drum,
every clap of any two hands,
every whimper in the night,
every birdsong of the morning,
every heavy breath,
every false silence,
every sound
continued riding
on the nape of waves,
waiting and hanging in the air
for a child to be its captor,
to be nestled and held away
in a mother’s mason jar
under screwed-tight lid,
never to be heard again.

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