Your Auditorium Voice

Your auditorium voice has the pacing of an American academic who discovered the sweat rings on the nightstand from the previous night’s visitor. It is irrelevant, the point you are reaching for in each pause you take to think through the last few days or months. There is so much missed. Your voice is just outside the covers pulled over your head, lying face down in bed in the middle of night. It is a flashlight and your daddy’s voice come to tell you about the rainstorm coming. Don’t be afraid.

There are legs which free-fall over knees, out of skirts, and your voice lingers on the red stained tissues in the trash can beside your bed. 

This auditorium heard the Waldstein last night. Your voice was shaking last night. It shook the baby from the crib, raging from being unprepared. It shook like turbulent air the way it must be to give up on lift, dwelling on the weight of machines and losing speed to fall from the clouds and crash into rolling waves or rocky cliffs or sand shaped by wind from dried up seas a million years ago. You are nowhere there. A voice alone.

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